Under the scarlet sky
by fukuji mihoko
Summary: Lambda can say things, but she doesn't mean them. Maybe that's why Bern stopped responding.  :Bern-centric, character study, Lambda/Bern, spoilers for ep 7:
1. Adult's toy

**Under the scarlet sky****  
><strong>Chapter One

'Adult's toy'

* * *

><p>She wasn't always like this.<p>

Once upon a time, a very long time ago her empty eyes were filled with color. She'd been a normal human then. She'd been a normal girl with hopes and dreams-

But there are no hopes or dreams anymore.

It's been so long since she had hopes she can hardly remember what 'hope' feels like; and if she were to stand under the night sky and see a shooting star, she wouldn't know what to wish for.

She… … wouldn't bother wishing for anything at all.

Wishes are based on miracles; and if the probability of your dream rests at zero then it will never come true. That's not pessimism, that's logic; and logic, unlike emotions, is infallible.

Even so, a heartless girl like her, she'd… had dreams.

A long time ago.

She'd been less intelligent then- and certainly more naïve- but (and she can hardly remember, she's just guessing) she was happier then.

They poked out her old eyes out with something sharp- and with her life-lit eyes they'd taken those hopes and dreams and crushed them between their fingertips.

She had new eyes now- and a new way of looking at things.

She doesn't dream anymore.

She doesn't like doing pointless things.

Her eyes and cold and empty now, like husks, and they're unnerving; people don't look at her in the eye anymore.

… …Her eyes had been pretty once.

Maybe they still were.

Lambda always said they were pretty.

Then again, Lambda said everything about Bern was pretty- and Bernkastel didn't believe a word of it. Lambdadelta was such a liar. Every word that came from her mouth was rotten; a crumbled mass of decay and disease underneath a sugar-coated surface.

'I love you, Bernkastel~' so light and sugary sweet, dripping from Lambda's tongue like thick, saccharine, _scalding_ honey.

Without 'love' it could not be seen, but Lambda had never 'loved' anybody other than herself. When she pressed herself closer to Bernkastel and dragged her pink, cat-like tongue down Bern's neck- leaving trails of saliva and kisses and obvious lies ('I love you, Bernkastel~') that stung like poison against pale skin- it wasn't out of 'love'.

None of it was out of 'love'.

Lambdadelta didn't know _how_ to love.

She knew how to lie instead.

Lambda's affections were a way to stave off boredom. When the two lonely witches, forever trapped in children's bodies, pressed one another close and began to untie ribbons and undo clothes it was easier to convince each other- convince_** themselves**_ (selfish; they were both so selfish)- that they weren't quite so alone.

They were still alive. The touch of foreign fingertips and lips on lips and purple-black bruises was proof of that.

They were still alive, and they had each other, and everything was fine.

Everything was-

Oh, look.

Another lie.

Every poisonous, playful word that dripped from Lambda's lips was a lie; oozing from her mouth like sewage spewing from an over-full trash can.

'Without love it cannot be seen'.

Perhaps Bern had been able to 'see' once- but her eyes are dead and empty now, and she doesn't think she could even if she tried.

Lambda lies all the time- but that's alright.

Bernkastel doesn't mind.

After all, she never tells the truth either.

* * *

><p>Maybe, in another time, another place, another world (another fragment?), Lambda could say 'I love you' to Bernkastel and mean it. But this is not that time, nor that place, nor that world.<p>

Bernkastel has seen more fragments than any human could imagine. If she weren't so very old she would feel overwhelmed; but Bernkastel (despite her unchanging features- stuck in stasis, like a doll) is not a child.

She's not even a human being.

And yet, although Bernkastel picks apart worlds with her fingertips- tearing them at the seams to expose the tender organs nestled inside, as a vulture would tear at dry bone for the dead flesh- Bernkastel has never found a universe where Lambda is able to look her in the eye and says 'I love you', and truly mean it.

Maybe such a world does not exist.

Maybe Lambda is incapable of 'love'.

It doesn't matter though, reasons Bernkastel, as Lambda tears at her dress. The fabric gets caught in Bern's hair and Lambda's not patient- she was never patient. She's so much like a selfish child; her face flushed with some sick, self-satisfied pleasure as she tugs harder and harder at Bern's dress and gets knots in Bern's pretty hair. Lambda doesn't treat Bern lovingly. Lambda isn't gentle, and she doesn't savour the moment.

Sometimes, Bern thinks Lambda treats her favourite strawberry cheesecake with more compassion than she does with her. Bern has seen Lambda on numerous occasions, sat in the sunlight like a cat, with a fork between her lips; a stupid smile on her face as the taste of cake dances across her tongue.

But Lambda is never that patient with Bernkastel.

Lambda doesn't eat Bern like a strawberry cheesecake. Instead, Lambda attacks her- tearing her apart; almost as if she wants to grind down her bones and mix their blood and inhale her into her body.

Lambda is rough and over-hasty and impatient- her fingers clawing lines into Bern's skin until it bleeds, her mouth attacking Bernkastel's in a frantic frenzy.

Bern always remains aloof.

"would you eat cake like that, Lambda? Your table manners sicken me."

But Lambda only grins her small, cat-like grin; lips quirking up, eyes sparkling wickedly, as she bites down against Bern's neck or her shoulder- sometimes even her exposed breasts- and her fingertips trail fire across Bern's too-pale skin.

"I love you. I love you more than cake, Be~rn~ How can I help myself?"

But that's not love.

Lambda's fingers tear at Bern's flesh, tangle in her hair- pressing their lips together greedily as though she wants to eat up every single part of Bernkastel.

That's not love.

It's not 'tender'.

It's thick and it's heavy and it's oppressive- and sometimes it hurts.

It's… an obsession.

A sick, unhealthy obsession.

Sometimes Bernkastel thinks Lambda _wants_ to hurt her because Lambda's fingernails dig with just a little too much strength into her scalp, and she crashes their mouths together so their teeth clink together like china, and she attacks Bern's body with her teeth and tongue so forcefully Bern's pale skin bruises dark purple.

Just like her eyes.

Empty bruises in her pale skin; cold and emotionless and dead, like a drowned girls'.

Hurting other people isn't an unnecessary evil, though.

It's a coping mechanism.

A way to forget your own pain.

When cruelty is your only protection against the universe- when drawing blood and eliciting moans from the person in your bed is the only way of reassuring yourself you still and exist and you're still alive and you still _**matter**_ because, look, you're hurting somebody; somebody's heart is _breaking _because of you- then you're left with no choice.

You** have** to be cruel.

Bernkastel knows this better than anyone. Better, even, than Lambda.

Bernkastel hides behind haughty expressions and empty-eyed staring. Her face is absent of childish innocence because she boxed all that clutter up- hid it under the creaking floorboards of her mind- years and years ago.

Lambdadelta is openly cruel, with twisted smiles and eager eyes. Lambda wrenches her fingers in and out of Bern's body, her eyes staring a hole into Bern's face; waiting for the point when Bern's icy façade shatters and she bucks her hips, forgets herself, and moans 'I love you too'.

Lambdadelta can wait until the world ends- but Bern will never comply with her wishes.

Bern will never return her 'love'.

Lambdadelta might be cruel, but Bernkastel is even crueller.

Bernkastel never tries to cause Lambda pain, and she doesn't fight for dominance when Lambda's hands fall upon her exposed skin, and she doesn't push Lambda away when the blonde witch bites down on her tongue.

Bern rarely responds.

Even when Lambda has Bern laid out on their bed (Bernkastel doesn't know when it became 'their' bed- the plural; but Lambda seems to steal everything that belongs to Bern at some point or another), Bern's legs spread wide and her dress kicked off to one corner, her hair fanning out across the pillow with Lambda's fingers pushing in and out of her body in a hazy frenzy of lust, Bernkastel doesn't respond.

She doesn't sigh.

She doesn't moan.

And she never says 'I love you'.

Bernkastel continues to stare up at Lamba with unblinking eyes, the indigo irises glassy.

Lambda is the only person who can stare down Bernkastel without shuddering in fear.

Lambda says 'I love you' all the time; pressing kisses against Bern's temple, cheeks, lips, neck, breasts, as her fingers keep thrusting (in and out and in an out; an all too familiar rhythm; and it would get boring- it should get boring- but, somehow, it never does) and her eyes keep staring for a response that will never come in childish rapture.

But Bernkastel never responds.

Bernkastel has been played with like a porcelain doll- an adult's toy- in the past; and she refuses to be used like that again.

She will not be manipulated so easily.

Bern will not let Lambdadelta, with her cruel eyes and pursed lips, slip under her aloof exterior. Bernkastel is stronger than that. She's not a toy anymore; she's not a cat on a typewriter trying to make a miracle. Bernkastel a powerful witch; and even when Lambda is spreading her legs and impaling her with fingers- the nails too long, drawing blood from the inside in a burning rush of heat and pain- Bernkastel is not spreading her legs wider because she's being manipulated.

She's doing it because she's bored.

Bernkastel will not be played with again.

Bernkastel is cruel too- she _has_ to be- and she will never respond to Lambda's affections with anything other than an emotionless stare.

Lamdba wants to win- Lambda wants to dominate; and Lambda was always childish.

But Bern remains aloof.

Bern will not give her the satisfaction.

And, in that way- even though it's always Bern who gets pushed onto her back, and it's always Bern who gets her clothes ripped off (literally ripped- because Lambda has little patience for buttons and her fingers fumble when she's over-excited), and it's always Bern who gets her body torn up from the inside with Lambda's sharp fingernails and pointed tongue- Bernkastel is_ always_ the one in control.

Bernkastel refuses to lose control- and she refuses to indulge in a lie.

Maybe Lambda wants to believe in her own lies.

Maybe, just maybe, Lambda wants somebody to love; and that's why, even though Bern never responds, Lambda always comes back.

Does Lambda want somebody to hold close and comfort her when the nightmares (if only they were nightmares; but they're not- they're memories) of closed rooms and that suffocating loneliness creeps up on her once more?

But Bernkastel- with her dead eyes, her dispassionate face, and her pursed lips- won't Lambda indulge in her own dream; her own delusion.

Bern never lets Lambda forget.

This is not love.

And it never will be.

* * *

><p><strong>an: **This is really /dark/ o_o Why am I writing so many dark fics? ._.  
>Anyway, I hope it's decent, and I hope everybody's vaguely IC thus far.<br>This ficlet is going to be ~very~ short (about 5 chapters), dealing w/ Bern & Lambda, because they seem to have a complicated relationship and they're complex characters and there's more stuff I want to write about- and I didn't want to over-saturate all my ideas into a single oneshot (if that makes sense? Eheheh… Basically I just like dragging stuff out XDD;;)

**~renahhchen xoxo**


	2. Antichlorobenzene

**Under the scarlet sky****  
><strong>Chapter Two

'Antichlorobenzene'

* * *

><p>Everybody looks so young to her nowadays. The gloating witch with blonde hair is little more than a child, even though her body is far more developed than Bern's ever will be.<p>

Bernkastel will not age.

She will remain an adult trapped in a child's body forever.

Bernkastel is not as young as the white lace and demure dresses suggests. Her mind is sharp- her cruelty even sharper- and everybody around her is beginning to look stupider and stupider by the second.

Beatrice is no witch.

She is a young girl plagued with heartbreak. She still dreams of a fairytale prince who will sweep her off her feet. Beatrice hides her pain behind a cruel smile and sadism. She is a young girl- a _lonely_ girl- who still believes in 'love'; and although she claims herself to be a witch, she's overly emotional- overly human.

Humans are stupid creatures who cling onto the concept of 'love'- but Bernkastel will laugh last, and the longest, because stupid humans always get hurt in the end.

A game board piled with dead bodies.

That is how 'love' ends.

Beatrice is so disgustingly human it makes Bern want to drag her fingernails across her chest and pull out those hopes and dreams, one by one, like tearing out teeth. And, as each 'root of love' gets removed in a spray of crimson blood, Bernkastel will laugh.

Bernkastel will laugh, because she knows how fragile love is.

She knows how fragile humans are.

They doesn't last.

Bern was a human once- but not anymore. She has grown up. Her body doesn't show it, but her mind does.

And Bernkastel knows the real 'miracle' for any person to achieve is true happiness.

Fairytale endings do not exist in the human world.

Bernkastel will humor this golden-haired child; this self-proclaimed 'witch'. Bernkastel will observe Beatrice's 'game'- and she will watch from the shadows like a cat in an alleyway. Bernkastel will watch as Beatrice's grandiose dreams of 'love' fall down around her feet like rain, and she will smile.

Bernkastel gives Beatrice a soulless stare over the top of her teacup. Despite Beatrice's elaborate skirts, ornate and hairstyle and womanly figure, she is no witch.

Not compared to Bernkastel.

As long as those soft, human feelings continue to flower oh-so-prettily in Beatrice's heart, she never will be a 'real' witch. Beatrice's love anchors her to Ushiromiya Battler like a chain. Though Beatrice acts proudly now, Bernkastel knows one day Battler will sever those chains of love with red truth.

Bernkastel knows Beatrice will bleed from the mouth in a mess of love and lies. Her eyes will widen with pain, and her skin will turn white like snow.

And then Beatrice- with her delusions of 'love'- will die.

She will die by the hands of the person she loves, like the broken little girl she is.

After all, fairytale endings are so unrealistic- and it's a thousand years to early for Beatrice to call herself a 'witch'.

_Sleep well, my beloved Beatrice._

A sweet blend of plum tea and irony- the most delicious combination- dances across Bern's tongue.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Bernn~" says Lambda, her milky white (sickly) fingers threading through Bern's hair. "Why're you getting involved with a bore like Beato?"<p>

Bernkastel feels Lambda tug at her hair- pulling with perhaps a little too much force. Lambda does most things with too much force. She's never heard of moderation; and Lambdadelta is so childish sometimes Bern believes she hurts her without any real malice. But the wide smirk that splits across Lambda's face is enough to dispel these foolish thoughts; and Bernkastel is not a fool.

Lambda is far more calculating than she first appears, and Bernkastel isn't naïve enough to trust her.

Bernkastel is not a child like Beatrice.

"No particular reason," says Bernkastel. Her voice is deadpan.

Lambda's fingers tangle further in Bern's hair, tugging at it with enough force to hurt. Lambda's fingers are very long and spindly, just like the legs of spiders, and she rarely cuts her nails. She keeps her nails long just so it hurts just a little bit more when she rakes her hands through Bern's hair, or claws at Bern's bare skin when she's pulling off her dress, or pushes one, two, three fingers inside Bern's unprepared body in just a matter of seconds just like _that._

Lambdadelta likes hurting other people.

More specifically, she likes hurting Bernkastel.

It's probably a good thing neither of them can 'love', because then it would hurt all the more when Lambda says she doesn't mean and Bern doesn't respond because she can't bring herself to care.

Bernkastel and Lambdadelta are older and wiser than Beatrice- and they know 'love' is a pointless endeavor.

When your mind is plagued by bad dreams- bad memories; closed rooms and cold shadows you've tried to bury from your mind with bloodshed over thousands of different game boards across a thousand years- 'love' isn't enough to reassure you that you're still _alive _and you still _matter_.

But pain is.

That's why you pinch your cheek to escape from nightmares.

Lambda is slowly, methodically, plaiting Bern's hair. Every so often she embeds bits of red-wrapped candy in the blue strands, like beads. Lambda's fashion sense has always been a little 'odd'.

Lambdadelta is acting rather… strangely. Usually she is quick and hasty and childish; wanting everything all at once as her fingers, mouth, lips, touch and kiss and caress every inch of Bern's body.

But sometimes- on rare occasions- when the two witches sit on 'their' bed, Lambda becomes just a little softer, and just a little more sincere. This is one of those times. She runs her hands through Bern's hair as though it's something to be admired; acting almost reverent. She picks up pieces of scattered candy between two fingertips and turns them over, holds them against Bern's hair- pondering, with a small frown, where to place them to best bring out the beauty in Bern's face.

Lambda frequently calls Bern beautiful.

Sometimes Lambda unwraps the candies and presses them against Bern's lips. Bern doesn't like the saccharine taste; it's over-powering across her tongue- but she still swallows. Bern's her tongue trails across Lambda's fingers, lingering on white flesh (cold and corpse-like) for just a little too long so Lambda giggles.

Softer moments like this are unusual, but not unheard of.

Lambda doesn't always tear Bern's clothes, her dress, her skin. Sometimes, depending on her mood, Lambda will simply lie against Bern's back, her arms round her waist; holding her close. Lambda recites poetry too; soft verses from Shakespeare that are so overly romantic Bern is almost compelled to roll her eyes; to show actual emotion.

'Never doubt I love', indeed.

Lambda's fingers tug at Bern's hair with just a little less force.

It... hurts a lot less.

In the physical sense, at least.

Now, it's painful for a different reason.

Lambdadelta is easy to understand when she's being rough and forceful, but when she strokes Bern's hair tenderly, smiling a smile not laced with its usual malice, it's...

A little more complicated.

_Confusing._

And Bern doesn't like being confused.

Maybe that's why she closes her eyes, and pretends it hurts more than it actually does.

"D-don't tell me you're bored of me already!" says Lambda, her voice laced with faux hysteria. "I can do wa~ay more interesting things than Beato can, Bern!~ I can massage you anywhere you want-" Lambda's fingers slip away from Bern's hair, moving past her shoulder; pressing against her chest "-in any way you li~ike-" Lambda squeezes gently, pressing her lips against Bern's ear as she does so "-you seee?~" Some of the candy becomes dislodged from Bern's hair, but Lambda doesn't seem to care.

Bern's eyelids are still closed, but she can feel Lambda's hands on her breasts- her lips on her neck- and, instinctively, she leans into Lambda's touch just a little.

It's not 'love'.

It's lust.

It's proving you're still alive and you still exist just because you have somebody to press your body against.

And lust is far, far easier to understand than the sincere smiles and gentle fingers and romantic poetry. This is Bernkastel and Lambdadelta, and it's cold and heartless and completely mechanical; going through the motions with empty faces and empty hearts.

This is all Bernkastel knows.

It's pain.

And she understands this.

It's 'love' without the false promises, and it's 'love' without the fairytales, and it's 'love' without the lies.

It's 'love' without the _feelings_ attached to it.

If human beings merely scratched and tore at each other's hearts instead of indulging in some overly-romanticized promises, it would save time.

But human beings don't make sense- and they look more and more idiotic to Bernkastel by the second.

"I'm not bored of you," says Bernkastel. Her voice is as emotionless as always, even though Lambda is pressing soft kisses against the exposed nape of her neck. "I merely heard that that child was starting something of interest."

"More interesting than thii~iis?"

"Even more so."

Lambda smiles a sick little smile against Bern's neck. The fingers of Lambda's right hand press against one of Bern's breasts, whilst the free fingers of her left take the hem of Bern's demure skirts; _far_ too demure when Bernkastel thinks she's so very ~_adult~_

Lambda giggles. She can't help it.

The sound worms through Bernkastel's ears like distended maggots in rotten flesh; squirming.

"You know what I think, Be~rn?" asks Lambda, voice teasing.

"What?"

"I think you're jealous."

"Jealous?"

Lambda's fingers pull back Bern's skirts. Though her underskirts are numerous, the wispy white lace is easy to shift. Pulling it up around Bern's knees is laughably easy. Then again, Lambdadelta has done this so many times before, it's almost second nature.

"The idea of another witch being able to feel real happiness make you feel sick~" says Lambda. "You're afraid Beato will get a happy ending with her prinnnce, no matter how unlikely it is~ So you want to split them apart~"

"I'm merely a spectator."

"Psshh." Lambda makes a dismissive sound. She's smirking. "You don't 'spectate' if you don't _care_. And I think you care very, _very_ much... You're so easy to read. Kikikiki~"

Lambda's fingers reach under those skirts- pressing against the inside of Bern's thigh, and trailer higher, higher...

Bernkastel doesn't resist. Even though Lambdadelta's laughter makes Bern want to scratch at Lambda's pretty face like a rabid cat- draw blood, make her _**scream**_- Bern doesn't move. She doesn't give Lambda the satisfaction. Instead, Bernkastel is motionless, doll-like, as Lambda's fingers press against the material of her panties, caressing softly (almost nervously) as though they've never done this before. Lambda moves slowly- far more slowly than usual- and Bernkastel knows she's grinning. Bern knows Lambda is being patient on purpose; trying to force Bern to press against her feather-light touches; trying to force Bern to impale _herself _on Lambdelta's fingers for once.

Bernkastel wants to break Lambdadelta's fingers- every single one; a beautiful symphony of snapping sounds and broken moans.

At that moment, Bernkastel hates Lambdadelta.

Lambdadelta has managed to crawl under Bern's skin- and she hates it.

She hates feeling so exposed.

* * *

><p>Bernkastel doesn't like the look in Beatrice's eyes when she's with Battler. Even though they're constantly arguing, their faces are filled with that human passion that burns to look at.<p>

Their faces are warm and bright and filled with love.

_Love._

It's a disgusting emotion; even more tasteless than the candy Lambdadelta lives on.

Bernkastel wants to take that love and grind it under her heel.

It makes her feel sick.

* * *

><p><strong>an: **Yay more darknesss :D  
>I feel kind of ~weird~ writing this... <em>stuff<em>... XD  
>Bern and Lambda are pretty twisted people, though XD;;<br>Developing more of Bern's character trololol

**~renahhchen xoxo**


	3. Hope

**Under the scarlet sky****  
><strong>Chapter Three

'Hope'

* * *

><p>Humans look so small when she's sat in the meta world, surrounded by endless white corridors with the taste of plum tea on her tongue. When she is the meta world she is untouchable. The choking stupidity of collective man, reaching towards her like extended fingers, cannot even hope to touch her when she is in her world of white.<p>

She was a human once, but not any more.

She is better than them now.

She is above them.

Humans have so many emotions; so many thoughts and feelings- and what for? Why do they exert so much energy in pointless activities (hope, happiness, and- above all- love) when their separate lives mean even less than the existence of pawns on a chessboard?

At least you can set pawns up again after the game is over, but when humans are dead they remain dead. Their pulses freeze and flies hover on their unblinking eyes; maggots burrow into their flesh and all that love and all those hopes and all those dreams are purged from their empty carcasses until nothing remains but dust.

Humans hope in vain because they are weak and they are infallible and they will die.

Humans will all, in the end, be conquered by hate and age and time; twisted and bent and broken under the heels of life.

Humans are so small and stupid.

She is above them all; sat on a pedestal, watching these ridiculous humans with her emotionless eyes.

She does not feel love because love is fleeting, love is for fools- and she is not a fool.

She will never be that foolish again.

Love is short-lived, but apathy is endless; her life is eternal- and she is much, much better than those useless humans. Human beings are little more than sacks of flesh liable to explode in bloody red showers if cut and torn in all the right places; and what good will 'love' do them when they're screaming in pain and they're going to die?

Love won't do a thing.

It's useless.

A useless emotion for weak, useless people.

Her cold skin is impermeable to such trivialities as 'love' and 'friendship' and 'trust'. She will never let herself become that weak.

And yet, despite all that, when Bernkastel's light-as-air presence manifests itself in the human world her view on humanity changes. She's no longer safe (why should she not be safe?) in her endless expanse of white upon white. She's no longer sat on her pedestal. The hands of humanity can reach her when her feet brush earth or air and her lungs inhale the same oxygen breathed by the pedestrians in the street.

Human beings don't look so small anymore when she's staring them in the eye.

The girl before her- Ange, Ushiromiya Ange- has narrowed eyes filled with distrust.

She's right to be distrustful. Bernkastel is a witch- the cruelest witch- and, though she supposedly controls 'miracles', Bernkastel knows miracles aren't free.

Miracles don't even exist.

Ange is right not to trust her.

Ange was brought up in a broken home. Bernkastel knows that only too well (she knows most things; it's rare something about her pieces escapes her attention). Ange's parents are dead. Her big brother is dead. She lives with her 'beloved' Aunt Eva- the main suspect in the murder case. What must it be like to sit face-to-face with the person you suppose to be your parents' murderer at breakfast every morning?

Torture.

It must be torture.

Ange's eyes are tortured.

She was bullied by her Aunt ('_George would never do that-_') and bullied by the girls at her school ('_she's talking to herself again- what a freak!'_) and haunted at every step and with every beat of her heart by thoughts of her mother and father and brother.

Happy, smiling faces she'll never see again.

Bernkastel wonders what it would be like if Ange learnt the truth about her mother; learnt how corrupt her 'perfect' family really was.

Perfection is a miracle- and miracles don't exist.

Ange meant nothing to Kyrie.

Ange was nothing to Kyrie.

She was little more than a chain; a red-haired, bright-eyed baby girl used to anchor Rudolf in place so he couldn't leave.

Ushiromiya Ange, the living chess piece.

What would she do if she knew?

The truth would probably kill her.

But Bernkastel doesn't want to kill her new toy before she's had some fun.

Ange has always been a pawn in other people's games- and Bernkastel sees no reason why she should break with the pre-established tradition. Kyrie no longer has a use for her daughter (her 'chain'; her 'chain' of flesh and blood and a beating heart) so Bernkastel's pale fingers will close around Ange's heart and propel her across the board instead.

Nothing has really changed.

Ushiromiya Ange was never her own person.

She was born for Kyrie's selfish ends, and she will die for Bernkastel's selfish amusement. She was born a pawn and she will die a pawn- and that's really not so unfair, is it?

Ange can't do anything about it.

She's only a small, useless human.

...But there are so many competing emotions blazing in Ange's eyes- there's such an intensity about her face- that Ushiromiya Ange doesn't look that small at all. She's not a little girl, she's an adult; and, at that moment she's not a 'piece' either. She's not a 'chain'. She hasn't agreed to Bernkastel's proposal yet (but Bernkastel knows she will).

There is something other than world-weariness and mistrust and misery in Ange's face.

It's small and slight, buried underneath a deluge- a landslide- of pained emotions accumulated over the years, but it's still there; just as it is with most humans. There's always one small, sparkling, solitary bit of light underneath the hurt that's almost impossible to stifle. It wavers and flickers, like a candle in the breeze, and sometimes it guts out- bringing humans to their knees and into their graves.

But, for Ushiromiya Ange, that light is still there.

That light called 'hope'.

And it makes Ushiromiya Ange shine.

Bernkastel has not felt 'hope' for a thousand years. It's a foreign emotion, an alien concept. Perhaps she felt it once, but not anymore. Her skin is cold and dead to touch, her feelings turn to sawdust in her heart and it hurts to speak in anything other than a soft monotone. Bernkastel's existence is flimsy in the human world; threatening to dissipate in a cloud of logic and golden butterflies.

The humans around her- the ones in the hospital, the ones on the street, the ones across the county, country, world- all hold so much hope in their hearts it burns Bernkastel's icy heart and sears ugly welts into her skin.

How dare they hope?

How dare they be happy?

Don't they know their days are numbered? Don't they know they're going to die? What does 'love' matter? What can you do with 'love' when you're hurting so much you wish you were dead? What can you do with 'love' when you've been buried under a pile of dirt and distended maggots crawl into your eyes?

Why do humans persist in hoping when life itself is hopeless?

Why? Why? Why?

It's irrational.

Ridiculous.

How can Ange hope to save her brother when he's already dead?

You can't save the dead.

How can Beatrice continue to hope for a happy ending when she's Battler's opponent?

How can Beatrice hope for happiness when she's an empty shell- a witch- a delusion- a fantasy with an ornate hairstyle and beautiful dress?

How can Beatrice keep loving Battler when she knows and Bernkastel knows and every sane person with a touch of common sense knows it will only bring her pain?

Why are people so desperate to open their hearts to others?

Why are people so desperate to get hurt?

Bernkastel can't even begin to comprehend it.

Her own heart is enclosed in an ice that will never thaw, and it would hurt too much to claw that ice away.

Bernkastel hates 'hope'. It makes human beings strong- perhaps even stronger than she is, ands he's a witch. And yet, at the same time, hope makes human beings irrational, stupid, thoughtless, unthinking. The illusion of a false hope can control even the strongest of people; and Bernkastel, the witch of miracles (the witch who can fulfill these helpless hopes) knows just what strings to pull and strings to tug to make her beautiful marionettes dance.

Ange looks so strong even though she's stood at the edge of a building, her hair dancing in the breeze to an inaudible melody.

Hope is what fuels Ange's body.

Hope is what kept her putting one foot in front of the other over and over again as her life span from misery to misery in a never-ending stream.

Hope is what drove Ange to pick her fallen body off the floor every time she stumbled.

Hope is what keeps her going.

Hope is what makes her strong- and that hope, burning brightly inside her body like a flame, is so bright Bernkastel's cold, dead eyes can hardly bear to look at her.

But hope is Ange's fatal flaw, too.

Tragic flaw?

Hamartia?

_Hardly._

Human lives are expendable. Ange is a pawn. She has no friends and family. There will be no 'tragedy' when she dies.

And she_** will**_ die.

Horribly.

That's what happens when you hope for things that will never come true.

Misery.

It's a foregone conclusion.

One day you'll realize you've been living in a fantasy world; a fairytale. And that realization will snuff your feeble, flickering hope out altogether. Bernkastel is the witch of miracles, and she knows how best to nurture those hopes; feeding the flames with vague promises and talk of miracles. But Bernkastel knows how to take that hope away just as easily.

Bernkastel knows how to manipulate people.

It's not so difficult.

If you take away 'hope' and 'happiness' human beings are hollow, their minds are malleable, and Bernkastel can twist them under her fingers to suit her own liking until they break.

Ange pauses, half-way between turning her back on Bernkastel in disgust, half-way between accepting her offer. Bernkastel sees several different emotions flicker through Ange's eyes; dancing across her irises like a kaleidoscope until Bernkastel feels almost nauseous.

Why do humans feel so many things? Are they trying to over-compensate? Are they trying to cram in as many emotions as possible before they're marched to their graves- reduced to ash and scattered through the soil?

How foolish.

Ange doesn't want to believe Bernkastel's words. She's wise- for a human. Ange has faced hardships in her life; hardships few human children endure in this modern society- and it's reached the point where she's afraid to hope, even though it's the one thing that keeps her going. A contradiction, yes- but Ange doesn't want what little hope she still retains to be torn away from her.

She's a smart child.

But she's not smart enough.

"If I defeat Beatrice will my family come back?" asks Ange.

And Bernkastel knows, with that single question, she has won.

She has captured her piece already.

Ange has fallen right into her hands.

And Bernkastel will use her new piece to tear down what fragile 'hopes' Beatrice still retains.

This story will not have a happy ending.

Happy endings between humans are impossible; they could only occur through miracles.

And miracles do not exist.

* * *

><p><strong>an: **I like writing this fic very much so XD It's... soothing XDD I have to be in a certain frame of mind to write it, though.  
>This fic is probably an example of alternative characterization or something, idk. Bernkastel's not just a heartless bitch who messes around with people for teh lulz (although there is an element of that too), but because she's jealous of their ability to hope in hopeless situations and she secretly admires their resolve? Idk XD She's a very twisted person, I guess. I hope some of the more pitiable elements of her character are coming through as well o:<p>

**~renahhchen xoxo**


	4. Heartbeat 0822

**Under the scarlet sky****  
><strong>Chapter Four

'Heartbeat #0822'

* * *

><p>"Hey, Bernnn~ Who's the pretty red-head?"<p>

Bernkastel looks at Lambdadelta over the top of her teacup. Her eyes are lidded, hazy, almost sleepy- but there isn't enough 'human' left in Bernkastel to make her appear vulnerable. Instead, she looks more like a corpse; a ghastly waxwork living from day to day through sheer force of will.

Other people would flinch from dead dolls' eyes like that; blank as buttons.

Lambdadelta isn't 'other people', however.

Lambda leans across the table, supporting her head with her hands, elbows pressed against the table top. Her nose nearly bumps against Bernkastel's. A small smile plays across her lips. Lambda's wide red eyes peer into Bernkastel's face, as though she's looking at a specimen under a microscope.

As Lambda surveys her, Bernkastel suddenly feels... disconcerted. She's never felt like this about Lambda before- but, in a flicker of eyes and a quirk of the lips, Lambdadelta has caught Bernkastel off balance somehow. Bern feels cornered; her back pressed against the chair, her vision eaten up by Lambda's bright red eyes.

There's nowhere to run to.

(Why would she want to run? Running is so undignified.)

She feels… … helpless.

Weak.

A cat on waiting for a statistically improbability to save her from an endless nightmare.

_Endless..._

As long as she continues to live, she will never forget.

And she will live forever.

Those memories haunt her; always tip-toeing around the fringes of her mind- waiting to catch hold of her heart at any given moment.

Lambdadelta's eyes look endless- almost as though she can see right through Bernkastel. But why should Bern be worried? Her heart is empty of love and care; devoid of sentimental debris, detritus... nonsense.

There's _nothing_ left inside of her for Lambdadelta to pick apart.

She has nothing to feel afraid of.

She is not afraid.

She has survived enough fear in her lifetime. Fear is a dark emotion; a helpless sensation of four walls pressing in at you from each side until you can hardly draw breathe and your heart hammers a pattern against your chest. Once fear catches hold of you with its shadowy tendrils it's almost impossible to escape.

Bernkastel has escaped that emotion, as she has escaped the cage of love and hope.

She has no regrets.

She will not allow herself to feel such emotions anymore.

She will not allow herself to be weak.

If being strong means being hollow she will accept that- because she has been weak once. She used to be pawn; a piece; as helpless as a stray cat in an alleyway, scrounging for food from trash cans.

Perhaps she was even more helpless than that.

But she has left those feelings behind her now.

She will not be afraid again.

S-so why, when Lambdadelta looks at her with those wide red eyes, does Bernkastel's heartbeat spike suddenly? Why are those four walls of fear- those walls she reduced to rubble when she escaped the logic error and escaped that woman and escaped herself- pressing down upon her once more?

Lambdadelta looks as though she knows something.

"Hey, Bernnn~?" Lambdadelta says, her voice light-hearted; sing-song. "I asked you a question. Are you ignoring me?"

"It's poor etiquette to put your elbows on the table." Bernkastel's voice is cold when she speaks. Her voice is made of ice; biting enough to eat into the hearts of minds of men and freeze them inside out.

But Lambdadelta only laughs.

Lambdadelta has experienced fear, too; fear just as pronounced as Bernkastel's- and Lambdadelta survived.

Lambdadelta has no cause to be afraid of Bernkastel when she is fully aware there are far worse phenomena in the universe to be frightened of.

"Well, soh~_ree_," says Lambdadelta, rolling her eyes. "You didn't care about etiquette last night when my fingers were inside you and you were screaming my name!~"

Bernkastel's face remains impassive. It betrays nothing. "Please do not exaggerate."

"I won't if you'll tell me who the new girl is~ The one with all the red hair."

"I would have assumed a nosy witch such as yourself would already know."

"Huh? Bern, did you call me smart?~" Lambdadelta's eyes light up, and a teasing smile tugs her lips. "I always knew you liked me, Bern!~"

"Don't twist my words to suit your own needs. It's tiresome."

"Oh, you're so _cold_- especially after all the things we've done together! I'm heart-broken!" declares Lambda, clasping her gloved hands to her chest. Her long, lithe, black-clad fingers fist against the folds of pink material. Despite Lambda's performance of 'never ending anguish', however, her red eyes remain cold- strangely calculating (Lambdadelta is smarter than she looks. Given the candy in her hair and bows on her dress, that's not too much of an accomplishment). "But you are right, Bern~ Ihihihi~ I do kinda-sorta know. That girl's your new piece, right? Ushiromiya Ange... Ange is a cute name!~" Lambda makes a face. "It doesn't suit her. There was nothing 'cute' about that girl at all."

"If you already knew why did you feel the need to interrupt my tea time with pointless questions?" asks Bernkastel, her unblinking purple eyes boring into Lambda's face.

Bernkastel is not afraid.

She is above earthly emotions such as 'fear'.

She... will never be afraid again.

She will not allow herself to be trapped up inside that black box- that suffocating morgue, crypt, coffin- anymore. She isn't a marionette in a witch's game. Now it is Bernkastel's turn to hurt others. Now it is Bernkastel who lets others know the pain and fear and impossible loneliness that comes with being manipulated like a child's doll then thrown in a corner to rot.

_How do you create a monster?_

_You abuse somebody who's weak; pushing them over and over until they snap._

_Then you give them power._

Bernkastel revels in her elevated position. She likes being on a pedestal; untouchable. It's... comforting.

The fear can't get her here.

The fear can't- but Lambdadelta can. Her black gloved fingers claw at Bernkastel's lily-white skin and worm inside her body, whilst Lambdadelta's lips curve into a cruel smile.

No matter where Bernkastel goes, no matter how powerful Bernkastel becomes, Lambdadelta will always be there. _Always. _Lambdadelta clings to Bernkastel like drops of rain or a second skin.

_You can't run away._

"I just wanted to hear you telling me yourself~ Geez, you get so uppity and upset about the strangest of things, my temperamental little Ber~rrn~" says Lambda. She draws out her 'r's, almost purring as though she's a cat.

"I am not temperamental. Your presence merely leaves me in a state of perpetual irritation."

"Humph!~ Somebody's grouchy today!~ Maybe I can fix this~~" Lambda sings, her fingers running through Bernkastel's hair. It's not a 'loving' motion; there is nothing 'loving' about Lambdadelta's awkward angles and skinny frame, jutting out elbows and sharp fingernails.

There is only pain.

But pain is better than fear.

"Hey, Bern~" Lambda ducks her head, pressing her mouth against Bernkastel's ear. Her voice drops to a soft whisper, her voice lower, deeper, more adult than usual. "I've never seen you get so involved in a game that doesn't involve you before~ What could the reason behind that be, I wonder?"

Bernkastel's body stiffens, as though in rigor mortis.

"There is no reason."

"You don't do things for no reason either~ That's waaaay too childish and impulsive for somebody like youuu~ You don't do things unless you can gain something from it. I know that~"

Lambdadelta smiles a cruel smile filled with malice.

"Bernnn?~ Does it have something to do with _this_?"

Bern feels unwelcome fingers pressing lightly above her breast. Against her heart.

Suddenly, it feels as though icy cold fingers have enclosed themselves around Bernkastel's throat.

It hurts to breathe.

* * *

><p>Ange doesn't last very long. This doesn't surprise Bernkastel; not in the slightest.<p>

That stupid girl only had to adhere to a few rules. It was simple. But she couldn't do that. She couldn't follow orders because she… what, 'loved' her big brother too much?

How stupid.

How sickening.

'Love' turned people into unthinking idiots, acting only on base instinct rather than logic; just like zombies.

Ange was a useless piece; nothing more than a second-hand pawn, discarded by Kyrie and captured by Bernkastel. Ange had been unable to help Battler- so perhaps it was good such a useless person died. That was 'justice', no? And Ange's death had spurred Battler on to defeat Beatrice.

It hadn't been a 'real' defeat, though.

Beatrice hadn't even tried to deflect Battler's blows, as pathetic as they were. A child could have seen through Ushiromiya Battler's arguments. 'Small bombs?' The thought was enough to make Bernkastel laugh.

So Bernkastel did laugh.

Why not?

Why didn't Beatrice do anything?

Did she not want to hurt Battler?

If she didn't want to hurt him, maybe she shouldn't have engaged him in her twisted chess game to begin with. Did she not think of that? Or did she not care if Battler dealt blows of red truth through her body- skewering her in place until her dress dyed red and blood trickled out of her open mouth- just so long as she could spend time with her 'beloved'? Had she always expected it to end that way?

That...

That was _unacceptable._

Battler hadn't defeated Beatrice. Beatrice had defeated_ herself_; allowing Battler to kill her because... because...

Because she was in 'love'.

Just like Ange.

They were messy, bloody, ugly sacrifices brought about for illogical reasons- reasons Bernkastel could not even begin to comprehend.

Love was unnecessary.

If you wanted to hurt yourself, why didn't you bite the inside of your mouth or scratch your veins out of your skin and be done with it? Did you have to thrust your fingers into your chest, rip out your heart and hand it somebody else so they could crush it for you?

That was all love was.

Hurting people and being hurt in return.

How _disgusting._

Beatrice, even though she'd been reduced to a dead-eyed doll with awkward ball-joint limbs, had not been defeated. She had allowed herself to lose for 'love'- and perhaps she had thought, in some unbearably 'human' way Bernkastel didn't understand (had no intention of ever understanding), that she had, in fact, won. Battler hadn't remembered what promise he'd broken (_**Ushiromiya Battler was incompetent**_), but Beatrice had been struck down by the person she loved in a false 'final battle' she'd constructed herself.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

Bernkastel could have forgiven Beatrice for such a poor ending to her badly constructed mystery story if Battler had truly wanted to kill her. If Battler- devoid of any sentimental human nonsense- had impaled her again and again with spheres of red, uncaring for Beato's cries of pain, then Bernkastel could have enjoyed that spectacle.

She could have watched it whilst eating popcorn.

But Battler had not wanted to kill Beato.

Instead, he had wanted to end her suffering.

Battler's eyes hadn't blazed with hate when he'd sunk his spears of truth into Beato's ragdoll body. Instead, Battler's eyes had been wide, trembling with... pity. Sympathy.

Love, love, love- there was so much love everywhere, in the words people said to the blood that stippled the floor in small specks, that it made Bernkastel feel sick.

This was not the ending she wanted.

Love, love, love.

Everywhere she turned, everywhere she looked, she was treading in sticky sentiments and unspoken feelings; so sincere and honest she almost wanted to carve scorpion symbols into Beatrice's skin. Would Battler still care about her if half her face was missing? What if she was ravaged by her own goat butlers?

Well...

That would be an interesting experiment.

How funny.

Ihihihi…

Kukukukuku!~

A twisted, distorted giggle forced itself out of Bernkastel's mouth.

Love did not exist.

People who claimed it existed were fools.

Beato had sacrificed herself for 'love'.

Battler had tried to end Beato's suffering for 'love'.

But it was all a childish fantasy, a delusion- no more realistic than a watercolor illustration inside a children's picture book.

Beatrice was not dead. She was still alive; trapped inside her own cold, dead body like a bird in a cage- but she was _alive_. Battler's piercing blow, straight through her heart and up into the roof of her mouth (her blood must have tasted warm when it trickled back down into Beatrice's trachea and choked her), had not destroyed the fantasy of the witch. The fantasy was still alive, her leg bound by a heavy chain.

Bernkastel had 'won'- but it wasn't a complete victory.

It would never be a complete victory until she had ground Beatrice down to the very last cell in her body- and she'd made Battler watch.

Just like with Ange.

Ihihi~ Angeburgers~

Bernkastel would show them all how stupid they were for clinging onto false, fleeting hopes. She would grind them into the dust. Then she would hold up a mirror, and let them see just how pathetic they really were.

Bernakstel had hoped once- but centuries of darkness and pain and loneliness had cured her of that particular delusion.

"Hehe~ Won't you fight, at least for Ange's sake? And Beato's too, right?~" Bernkastel goads with uncharacteristic cruelty, her soulless eyes boring into Battler's.

She knows she's caught him. He can't escape her web.

_Come into my parlor said Madame spider to the flies._

_Come on. Let's have some fun._

Battler will fight, Bernkastel knows it. He's haunted by the memories of Beatrice, the memories of Ange, and the memories of his poor, poooor family members who keep dying in the most horrible and improbable of ways (although the truth of the matter is far, far worse). Battler will come back. Bernkastel knows just how to manipulate people. It's easy. For Ushiromiya Battler, all you have to do is tug on his heartstrings and he'll come running.

Beatrice, Ange.

Battler loves them both.

He wants to protect them both.

And, whilst he attempts to 'protect' them, he'll be forced to watch Bernkastel disassemble Beato's game- clawing out the insides for all to see.

_Without love it cannot be seen._

But there is no 'love' in the mystery genre. 'Love' only blinds you to the truth; makes you unwilling to suspect others; makes you weak; makes you _stupid._

Bernkastel is above such things.

_I will _not _allow this story to have a happy ending._

* * *

><p><strong>an: **cheerful fic is cheerful XD  
>I think I'm like halfway thru now. Funfunfun.<p>

**~renahhchen xoxo**


	5. Romeo end Juliet

**Under the scarlet sky****  
><strong>Chapter Five

'Romeo end Juliet'

* * *

><p>"M-master... P-please forgive me! It won't happen again!"<p>

Furdo Erika is so pathetic she doesn't even deserve a name. The weeping, trembling girl is lying in a heap on the floor. She doesn't look human. She's hardly even good enough to be an insect. An ant. A maggot.

A fly in a spiders' web.

Bernkastel is the spider.

But Erika is the only fly left.

All the other flies have long since escaped Bernkastel's net of carefully spun false hopes and manipulations. When Bernkastel reeled in the gossamer strands at the end of the fifth game, the squirming bugs vanished into the ether.

They vanished, just like smoke or fog.

Witches laugh in the fog that swirls through the woods on Rokkenjima. In the fog nobody can see them- and nobody can disprove them, either.

Where did they go?

There's no soft flesh left for Bernkastel to dig her fangs into; no tender-beating hearts to tear out with her teeth; no hopes or dreams to skewer with pointed legs and bright red truth.

The predator has been denied its prey; the prey it waited patiently to catch for so long.

There is nothing left but the bitter taste of defeat. It's so overpowering all the tea in China couldn't hope to mask its horrible sting.

It doesn't matter what Bernkastel does now. The facts are plain and clear, black and white, and she can't dispute them. Bernkastel can't turn around and hide from the truth- not when it's staring her so blatantly in the face.

Battler won.

Erika lost.

And, to that extent, so did Bernkastel.

And she'd hardly even seen it coming.

Battler had been stood in the white chapel in his white suit with his paper-pale white skin pulled taught over his skull in a hideous scream of pain. A spear stuck through his body; jutting through the cavity of his ribs, piercing the faintly beating heart trying to snatch back some phantom memory of life. Bright red blood trickled in garish tracks down Battler's chin; bubbling on his lips like sea foam.

Seam form had never been that red, though.

The white floor was spattered with red.

For all of his self-assured words and burning confidence, Ushiromiya Battler had- in the end- been nothing more than an ordinary human being. Ushiromiya Battler was filled to the brim with lofty promises and arrogant smiles- all of it threatening to overspill when knocked, just slightly, by an opposing force.

What had happened to Ushiromiya's Battler's confidence? What had happened to his poise? His dignity? His logic? His love? His hopes.

They were all bleeding from his mouth in trails of red.

Ushiromiya Battler said a lot of stupid things.

He made a lot of promises.

And, one by one, he broke them all, in a steady string- cutting into hearts like the finest poison, because nothing hurt more than disappointment. Nothing was more heart-wrenchingly agonizing than unrequited love ("_I'll come back for you_.")

Perhaps there had been some kind of poetic justice in the way Dlanor had dealt Battler that fatal blow. Battler had been pinned in place like a butterfly on a board; a struggling insect trying to free itself from imminent, unavoidable death. A spear of truth ran through Battler's rag doll body at a beautiful angle. It pierced through a lung, cracking through ribcage and shattering bone.

Ushiromiya Battler was drowning in his own blood.

And the spear of truth went through the lung and through the bone- right through his heart.

It must have hurt.

It must have hurt a lot.

But it seemed only fair.

Battler had broken hearts. Now his heart was broken, too. Wouldn't that be a case of 'your just desserts'? And really, all human beings should have met their ends like that.

They were all the same.

Romance began in a whirlwind of impossible promises and baseless hopes; a strange, human desire to see something beyond the facts presented and a giddy euphoria of fairytale fantasies.

Romance ended with broken hearts and blood bubbling from the mouth.

You only needed to ask Ange about that.

Or Beatrice.

Or... even Battler.

Bernkastel always did like poetic justice.

But that hadn't been the end. Somehow- and Bernkastel didn't know how- Battler had managed to survive beyond his injuries, even though they would have killed a normal human being. Whilst his heart shuddered in his chest and his eyelids flickered closed, his mind did not stop working. Ushiromiya Battler did not stop thinking. And, with every thumpthumpthump of his stubbornly unceasing heartbeat (threatening to burst out of his chest in a shower of blood red and broken ribs) Battler did not stop feeling. He was clinging onto the edges of life with his fingertips; every inhalation was agony; every breath another stab of unshakable red truth in the already-collapsed cave of his lungs, throat, fingers.

It would have been easier to die.

But Ushiromiya Battler was stubborn even on his deathbed. Battler refused to give in. Battler refused to stop feeling- even though those exact same emotions of 'love' had reduced Ange to cat food and Beatrice to a broken doll with eyes that only opened if you tipped back her head.

Ushiromiya Battler had not given up.

And, in the end...

Well.

Bernkastel looks down at Furudo Erika, the so-called 'great detective', in disgust. How dare that worthless piece of junk- that useless sack of flesh and bodily fluids- wear Bernkastel's beautiful blue hair when she allowed herself to be defeated so badly? Torn up on all sides by Beatrice's furniture- furniture that shouldn't be allowed to exist; furniture that made a mockery of the mystery genre Erika claimed so ardently to love- Furudo Erika has been reduced to a pathetic, sniveling mess.

Bernkastel doesn't even want to look at her.

_Failure._

She is a failure.

And so is Bernkastel.

She'll have to set that right…

Perhaps humans are more resilient than she'd once thought. Battler had clung desperately onto one last shard of hope as the darkness crashed over his head- and he'd struggled against the tide of his nigh-inevitable demise. The chance of his survival had been as little as 4%. Not impossible (few things in life were impossible), but incredibly improbable. And yet he'd still survived.

But he won't for much longer.

The world is a cruel place- and Bernkastel knows it is her job to teach that to Ushiromiya Battler. She wants to take Battler's hope away from him; scrubbing clean every single happy memory out of the inside of his skull until he's cured of his fantasy delusions. Bernkastel will open up Battler's eyes to the true futile nature of hope in a crumbling world built on decay and lies. Bernkastel will shatter Ushiromiya Battler both mentally and physically.

Then, perhaps, Ushiromiya Battler will stop pretending he's so much better than her.

Love is a delusion.

Battler should enjoy being crazy while he can.

Because Bernkastel is going to cure him.

* * *

><p>"You know she loves you, don't you?"<p>

Those words- sweet as sugar, deceivingly harmless- send chills up Bernkastel's spine. Her shoulders tense, her eyes narrow, her whole body stiffens in a state of corpse-like rigor mortis.

It hurts.

It shouldn't- but it _does._

Lambdadelta giggles softly, her arms tightening just a little round Bern's middle. Soft enough to be called 'tender'- but tight enough so Bernkastel can't push away.

Bernkastel is sat on her bed, legs splayed, whilst Lambda holds her from behind tenderly; a grotesque parody of 'emotion' Lambda doesn't possess. Lambdadelta's head rests on Bernkastel's shoulder, her blonde hair dancing across Bernkastel's partially exposed skin. Their clothes are rumpled, dresses partially unzipped and falling off their shoulders in pools of fabric.

If they were human this would probably be a loving, heart-warming scene- but they're not, and it isn't.

Bernkastel shudders at Lambda's touch. Her gloves are still on, but maybe that's for the best. It would be too intimate for bare flesh to meet bare flesh; and Lambda's fingers are so good at procuring slight flutters of long-latent from Bernkastel it's dangerous when she removes those gloves.

The gloves make Bernkastel feel a little better. Just a little.

It's easier to pretend she's removed from the situation that way; her mind dancing through fragments of undiscovered worlds whilst her body remains rooted in Lambda's arms.

Lambda's words are more intrusive than her touch, though.

Bernkastel likes it more when Lambdadelta doesn't talk. Lambdadelta only ever tells lies, anyway. The gentle, tender caresses are untruthful, too. They're not 'pure' or 'loving'; it's all about control- trying to break each other down and, at the same time, destroying themselves more than they could ever hope to hurt each other. Even the soft touches of lips to skin is destructive; each strategically placed like spider bites to hurt.

Bernkastel and Lambdadelta are not human, and they don't know how to love. Perhaps they did once- but that instinct is long gone.

In this world, pain is the only thing that matters.

Pain and power.

Power is important.

It reassures Bernkastel she still exists.

But the touches are less complicated, less confusing, than the crafty lies Lambda spins with her lips and tongue. Lambda's words coil round Bernkastel's throat until she feels that _she_ is the real fly in the web and Lambdadelta, with her bright red eyes and wicked teeth, is going to tear off her wings and eat her up.

Bernkastel is the fly.

Lambdadelta is the spider.

"I feel a little sorry for Erika~" Lambda sings, her lips resting against Bern's neck.

"Why would you feel sorry for furniture? Would you sympathize with a table or chair?" asks Bernkastel, her voice carefully crafted; cold and aloof like the stars in the night sky.

"That's different. You know it's different."

"I don't see a difference."

"It's because Erika's not juuust a piece. She isn't a toy. She has thoughts and feelings tooo~ And... Ihihi~" Lambdadelta giggles her eerie distorted-child laugh of long-lost innocence.

Lambdadelta raises her head; finds Bernkastel's ear with her tongue, teeth, lips, and bites down gently. Bernkastel doesn't know why Lambdadelta bothers to be gentle when these actions are only meant to disturb, to disconcert. Lambdadelta might as well tear out Bernkastel's throat with her teeth- staining pearly white bright red- and be done with it; but Lambdadelta is not kind. She likes to play with her food.

This is not kind. This is another kind of torture far more sophisticated than claws to flesh and teeth tugging at lips.

This kind of torture doesn't leave marks.

It doesn't bring blood.

It's psychological, emotional, and it's all in the head.

Lambdadelta releases Bern's ear from her teeth, but her lips don't pull away that quickly. Lambda's breasts are pressed against Bern's back, their legs coiled together, her fingers round Bern's middle and her lips to her ear.

Bernkastel can't escape.

She's trapped.

"Erika is in love with you."

And she can't escape from the poisoned words that fall from Lambda's lips, either. The lies drip drip drip down Lambda's chin like droplets of acid rain.

"That child was going to die when you found her~ A lonely little girl lost out at sea. She couldn't swim," Lambda continues. It sounds as if she's telling a fairy story- and to other people, perhaps it would sound like little more than fantasy. But it's not, it's more than that- and Bern knows it. So does Lambda. So would Erika. "Hehe, imagine that~ That silly girl prides herself on her great intellect. She calls herself all sorts of pompous things~ 'Intellectual rapist?' Please! How can you say that when you can't even swim! Hehehe!~~

"You must have looked like an angel to her, Bernnn~~ You gave Erika your hand and you pulled her from the water~ You dropped her off in Rokkenjima- in the midst of a murder mystery she'd always dreamed of solving!~ You saved her life. Of course she loves you."

Lambda smiles. It splits across her face like an ugly scar.

"She'd do anything for you."

Bernkastel tries to suppress a shudder.

"I don't care if that piece loves me. Her feelings aren't important."

"And that's why this story is so tragic!~ But never fear- no matter what you dooo or what you saaay, Erika will never stop being in your debt. Erika will never stop loving you. You could sew shut her mouth or carve marks in her flesh~ You could poke her eyes out with pins or break allll the brittle little bones in her arms and legs~~ You could tear out her hair, cut out her tongue, hold her head under the water, tear open her stomach and stuff it full of candy and sawdust~~~ You could make her dirt or poison or her own flesh served from a silver platter. You could fill her body with decay and disease and watch as she rots from the inside flies hatch in her internal organs~ You could torture and mutilate and humiliate her forever and ever and ever... But she'd never stop loving you."

Lambdadelta laughs.

The laughter is worse than the words. It's cold and jeering, and so completely inhuman it almost makes Bernkastel want to tear Lambda's face off. How can she wear the skin of a human when there is no warmth or pity in her heart? How can Lambdadelta even speak the word 'love' with her rotten tongue? The concept of 'love' should burn her, blight her; sear holes in mouth and turn her teeth to ash.

How can Lambdadelta speak of 'love' when she's a witch?

"How does it feel to be loved that much, hmn, Bernnn?~ Isn't that wonderful? Doesn't that make you happy? Aren't you lucky? Hahaha!~"

Fingertips run up Bernkastel's body. They rest against Bernkastel's frozen heart- searching for a sped-up pulse that could betray Bernkastel's fear. Lambda's fingers press insistently against the film of flesh that separates organs from the outside world, almost as if she's trying to burrow her digits into Bernkastel's body like flesh-hungry maggots. It feels as if Lambdadelta is trying to tear out her heart; hold it in her black-gloved hands and watch as it beats out its final beats.

Lambda wants to possess, to own, to dominate- not just Bernkastel's body, but her heart, too. And, as she can't claim Bern's heart emotionally, she can only do it physically.

By tearing it, still-beating, from Bern's body.

"I feel a little sorry for that stupid girl~" Lambda says, her fingers still digging into Bern's skin. "Really. She exists because of you. Every breath she takes, every beat of her heart... She owes it all to _you. _And you won't even look at her. Hehe~ That _**is**_ a really interesting form of torture. Maaybe it's even meaner than poking pins in her eyes or breaking her bones... Because at least she could recover from that. But how do you recover from a broken heart?~~~ Some people never do~ Some people go _**completely **_off the deep end with that emotional abuse~ That's when the bodies start piling up!~ Hehehe!~"

Those words bite into Bernkastel's heart, infusing her blood and bone with a bitter, stinging poison. It hurts to breathe.

Lambdadelta giggles.

It sounds insane.

"Bernnn~ Why do you do this?"

"I am not doing anything."

"Yes you are." Lambda's voice drops in volume and pitch. It becomes lower, more dangerous- though Bern can still hear the sadistic smile in her words. "You're so adverse to the idea of 'love'- see! Seeee? You even flinch when I say it!~~ Hehehe... That's kind of sad. I could cry for you. I won't though... Ihihi~ You've got Erika to do that in my place. At least, until you kill her. 'Cause you areee going to kill her. I think even she can see that. I guess, in this case, 'love' isn't enough, riiight?~ It would be for anybody else- but you're so cruel and heartless it seems human emotions can't reach you anymoreeee~"

A pause.

Another soft giggle.

"Or maybe you care about human emotions _**too **_much… Well." Giggle, giggle. "That's food for thought~"

Bernkastel remains silent. She couldn't speak even if she wanted to- and Lambda's touches are slowly becoming less 'innocent' (not that they were to begin with). Lambda's fingers are still pressed against Bernkastel's chest; trying to take a handful of flesh as though she's the once forcing blood in and out of Bern's heart. However, the fingers of her free hand are tracing patterns along Bern's thigh; running across flesh like pinpricks of fire. They slip under her skirts, pushing fabric away as her gloved fingers press against hot flesh.

"Erika looks a lot like you, you know," Lambda says. Her voice is light again- speculative, like a young child looking up at space and trying to puzzle out the stars and the sun and the moon. "I'm sure that was intentional. You're clever, Bern~~ You only do things for super-smart reasons. But how much d'you have to loathe _yourself _before you start to torture a girl who looks and acts juuust like you?"

Fingers slip into Bernkastel's panties; pressing against yielding flesh, as Bernkastel gaps softly despite herself.

"If you really hate yourself that much, Bern, why don't you just die? Just drop dead~ Don't involve other people in your petty problems. Kukukuku~~~"

Lambda giggles.

Kill yourself. Just kill yourself.

She whispers the words as she fucks Bernkastel on her fingers; her smile unchanging, like a dolls'.

Words hang, unspoken, in the air.

As always, it's the things that Lambda doesn't say that carry the most meaning.

_You better watch out, Bern- or you'll destroy __yourself__ longgg before you ever manage to destroy Battler._

* * *

><p><strong>an: **Last bit was difficult to write :/ There were so many emoshuns I wanted to convey and so many thoughts/feelings, and I don't think I communicated it too well but... -sigh-  
>Bern, y u such a complicated character? XD<br>Trying to make her seem both like her usual bitchy canon self and a somewhat sympathetic person was difficult XD That also involves making Lambda more sadistic, even though I love Lambda ;A;

It feels in this fic every single word has so much meaning, so I have to be incredibly careful when writing it- far more than I am with my usual fics :

**~renahhchen xoxo**


	6. Mozaik role

**Under the scarlet sky****  
><strong>Chapter Six

'Mozaik Role'

* * *

><p>The sixth game- the game orchestrated by Battler- is horribly tedious. Bernkastel soon grows tired of the continuous talk of 'love', until she feels like scoffing at Battler's ignorance. Is he trying to provoke her by being stupid on purpose?<p>

But no- Battler isn't intelligent enough.

He has no idea how much this ridiculous 'love story' irritates Bernkastel.

Wasn't this supposed to be a murder mystery? 'Love' doesn't feature in murder mysteries. Love is merely a motive for a crime (it _was_ a motive for a crime) but, beyond that, it's hardly important. It's hardly something to extol.

Without love it cannot be seen?

Ha...

How funny.

It's hilarious, even.

'Love' does nothing but blind you to the true nature of humanity. If 'love' is such a powerful force, why is the history of humanity peppered with so much bloodshed? If 'love' really is something to be placed on a pedestal and revered as the ultimate ideal, the goal for all humans, then why do those who experience 'love' suffer so much? The events that play out on the game board of Rokkenjima only confirm Bernkastel's belief that love is for fools. Young girls delude themselves into believing they, like their fairytale heroines, deserve a perfect ending with their prince charming.

Real people, however, have faults and flaws, and real people aren't perfect. Therefore, prince charming does not exist. Bernkastel knows this to be a fact. She has seen numerous fragments of thousands of worlds, and never once has Bernkastel seen a real prince charming.

Sorry. It's all a lie.

Then again, most things in this world are. But you only learn that as you get older- and Bernkastel has lived for a thousand years. Maybe more; she doesn't remember. She lost count centuries ago.

Prince charming would never make promises he doesn't intend to keep- but humans do, again and again and again.

Humans hurt each other.

Humans hurt each other through war and hate and pain and ignorance. Humans hurt each other willfully, with cruel words that sting more than poisoned barbs. But they hurt each other inadvertently, too, by falling in love- by believing in a childish ideal that with love comes a happily ever after.

Human beings are so stupid.

Bernkastel is far above them all.

Bernkastel sits and watches Battler's game, her legs crossed, a blank expression on her face- but every time Shannon or Kanon or Jessica or George speak of 'love' on the game board she tenses, just slightly. Sometimes her fingers tremble, her grip on her teacup tightens, and she's in serious danger of shattering the porcelain and spraying tea everywhere. Other times, Bernkastel feels laughing. Sometimes she does.

Mostly, though, Bernkastel feels like tearing her own beautiful blue hair out in frustration.

Lambdadelta is watching Bernkastel with a cruel smile on her face- and, more than ever, Bernkastel feels like she's been driven against a wall.

She can't escape.

She's surrounded by idiots.

* * *

><p>Battler is struggling to deal with the Beatrice look-a-like; the girl with innocent eyes and a small smile. She made him cookies. Isn't that cute? Isn't that adorable?<p>

But it's not like Beatrice.

Bernkastel wonders whether Battler would be happier if Beatrice threw boiling tea in his face or tore out his hair. It wouldn't be 'love', but it would be normal behavior from the Golden Witch, and perhaps that's what Battler expects. He certainly doesn't expect Beatrice to look at him so tenderly, so lovingly, like a young school girl with a crush.

Battler is such a fool. He wants the real Beatrice back- but didn't he hate her? Weren't they _enemies_? If they weren't, what was the point in their game to begin with?

If Battler wants to be loved it would be smarter- more intelligent- to keep Beatrice as she is; an unhatched chick who hasn't been nursing a broken heart (a heart **he **broke) for one thousand years.

This Beatrice does not hate him.

She has no reason to.

And yet, although this Beatrice loves Battler- looks at him with such care and reverence it's sickly sweet, enough to rot the teeth and hurt the stomach- Battler can't bring himself to love her back. Battler hated the original Beatrice for being too cruel, but he hates this one for being too kind.

She's just not the same.

Their relationship isn't the same.

Ushiromiya Battler sounds like a selfish child who didn't get what he wanted for Christmas. He's sulking. It's pathetic. He doesn't deserve to be the game master when he acts like such a child.

Bernkastel can't understand humans at all. They're so illogical it makes her head hurt.

Doesn't Battler want Beatrice to love him? Why, then, is he trying to destroy the illusion of love the unhatched chick 'Beatrice' is so willing to offer him? Bernkastel wants to take Battler by the hair and grind his head against the floor; stamping on his face again and again until his nose crunches and breaks and beautiful red blood flows. Bernkastel wants to laugh at him. Stupid, stupid human. You can't love your enemy; not when you **made** her your enemy to begin with.

Beatrice was a kind, shy, gentle girl like _this_ once upon a time, when she **wasn't** Beatrice and she lived on Rokkenjima as a servant. Beatrice the Golden Witch was a normal person once upon a time. She couldn't do magic and she was a little clumsy, she wasn't that happy and she didn't have any friends save the ones in her head, but at least she had hopes and dreams. At least she was still a human, and still capable of being in love.

And then Battler stormed into her life and tore all she held dear away from her; her hopes, her heart, and then her _mind._

Ushiromiya Battler drove that girl crazy.

Ushiromiya Battler instigated all the murders of Rokkenjima with his callous attitude and cold heart.

Battler's false promises and false love turned 'Beatrice' into the narrow-eyed, cruel-tongued enemy on the other side of the chess board he hated so much. It was Battler, with his prince charming lines and the personality that didn't _quite _match up to his grandiose words, who killed that young girl. It was Battler who left her to languish on her island, inside her mind for what felt like a thousand years, as she waited for a prince who would never come back.

The new Beatrice Battler created doesn't know about pain or fear or misery. She doesn't know about rejection. She's the same normal girl with lofty hopes and fairytale dreams from six years ago- or a thousand (but time doesn't really matter).

And maybe, if Battler loved Beatrice back _**this **_time, the innocent, unhatched chick Beatrice could be happy. She could have the life her older counterpart wanted but could never have, because time doesn't heal all wounds and broken hearts can't be pieced back together that easily.

Ushiromiya Battler could atone for his past sins by loving this new Beatrice, as he should have loved her all those years ago.

But he won't.

He hates her.

He can hardly stand to look at her.

Battler much prefers the cruel, sadistic, twisted Beatrice; the innocent girl **he **himself twisted when he failed to keep his promise. Battler likes Beatrice the most when she's broken- and the old Beatrice, in turn, loves Battler when he's attached to the end of a metal chain, completely humiliated, forced to follow her every beck and call.

Love is twisted.

Love is sick.

Love is unhealthy.

This is proof of that.

Battler doesn't love the smiling Beatrice who bakes him cookies. He loves the cold-hearted, cruel-tongued witch who murdered his family.

Bernkastel doesn't blame the old Beatrice- not really. If somebody broke her heart (no, not just broke; **crushed it **under their feet as though it was **nothing**) then she would like to make them suffer, too. And maybe, as she was making that heartless person suffer, she would feel elated that she was in control- and maybe, if she'd been twisted so much by the thorns of unrequited love she lost all sense of reality, she would call the sick thrill of control and the pain in her heart that came with it 'love'.

Being hurt, getting hurt.

That is love.

That is the truth behind the illusion.

Love is not baking cookies for your beloved. Real love- the love separate from fairytales- is not based on tender feelings or trust, or even real romance.

Love is a desire to dominate. Nothing more.

That is why Bernkastel is above love; because she will not allow herself to be controlled.

Battler can spin his tale of love in the sixth game as much as he wants, but even Battler- dense as he is- knows how that 'love story' ultimately ends. Rokkenjima will be splattered in blood no matter how he tries to rearrange the pieces. That is just the way of things. That is all that comes of love. And, when Bernkastel sees the look of hatred Battler gives the 'baby' Beatrice with the fast-slipping smile and dissolving innocence, Bernkastel wants to slap Ushiromiya Battler across the face.

He could repent for his sins.

He _could._

This is Battler's chance to correct his wrongs from six years ago. Battler hurt that young servant with his callous promises, but the same servant girl has been placed before him again; the exact same person wearing the witches' dress and the witches' face. But, deep inside, she's still that lost and lonely servant girl from Rokkenjima.

She's still that girl who loves Ushiromiya Battler unconditionally, more than life itself.

If Battler loved her maybe, this time, he could set things right.

But Battler won't.

He's killing Beatrice all over again.

He's breaking her heart- maybe because, at this point, he simply likes breaking things.

Ushiromiya Battler likes broken people.

When somebody's broken they need you; when somebody's dying and you're all they have left who else can they turn to? It's easier to control broken people, after all. That's why 'happiness' doesn't exist in love. A 'happy romance' is almost an oxymoron.

Battler can extol the virtues of love on the game board all he likes, but in the end he's a hypocrite- a complete _**hypocrite**_.

Ushiromiya Battler is a liar.

And Bernkastel hates liars.

It's so sad Bernkastel could cry.

She doesn't cry, of course.

Instead, she laughs.

She knows she's a hypocrite, too.

* * *

><p>It hurts watching Ushiromiya Battler push the 'baby' Beatrice away. It hurts more than it should- every cruel word from Battler's lips cutting a groove in Bernkastel's chest, as though <em>she<em> herself were helplessly in love (perish the thought) and he were saying those things to _her._

Bernkastel wishes she doesn't empathize as much...

But she _does._

Baby Beatrice, with her innocent eyes and tentative smiles (afraid to be happy in a cheerless world where being happy means being _hurt_), reminds Bernkastel an awful lot of another girl. Baby Beatrice reminds Bernkastel of a girl she knew very well once upon a time- but Bernkastel knows she couldn't reach that girl anymore even if she wanted to.

That girl is dead now.

But, once upon a time, even Bernkastel was wide-eyed and innocent.

Once upon a time, even Bernkastel smiled and meant it.

The world (Bernkastel can hardly remember which one) took that happiness away from her.

In the original Beatrice's case, it took one thousand years before she finally lost hope- but the moment Ushiromiya Battler cocked his head to one side and said (a lie he's lying an obvious lie) "I never committed any sin" Beatrice broke down. Beatrice lost the will to live. She'd been clinging to life as a witch, holding onto all the pain and hurt and despair and lost love in her heart, in the hope Battler would remember and he'd apologize.

He never did, though.

And it doesn't look as if he ever well, even though he **does** understand now- which makes it that much worse.

It took the world one thousand years to break Beatrice.

It...

I took considerably shorter for it to break Bernkastel.

All it took was a darkened room.

A logic error.

And a never-ending nightmare.

* * *

><p>Love, love, love.<p>

There's love everywhere.

But Bernkastel has never felt sicker.

She will end this illusion.

She has to.

Beatrice's 'games' have merely been a long, drawn-out double suicide; Beatrice and Battler both fighting one another whilst, at the same time, tearing away parts of their own flesh. Beatrice has been torturing herself over Battler's broken promise, and Battler has been torturing himself over his gradually developing 'love' for his enemy; the woman he has to kill (but it's not so bad, Battler, you already killed her once~ Bernakstel always wanted to say).

Beatrice and Battler have been killing themselves slowly, so slowly, and painfully, too. Picking love out of a heart is like pulling glass from a wound. It takes a long time and it hurts, and maybe- in the end- you'll be so crippled with pain it'd be better to die anyway.

Bernkastel can't stand to see Battler extolling the virtues of 'love' from his dirty mouth anymore, and she can't stand to see baby Beatrice ground down by the heels of life.

Bernkastel will end this illusion quickly, in a single decisive blow of beautiful red truth.

Then Battler and Beatrice can put their 'love' behind them.

They can both sleep.

Love is confusing, but death is relatively straight-forward.

And, at this point, it's probably the kindest thing to do.

Bernkastel's not acting out of any real hate anymore.

It's a mercy killing.

Because, as little as she wants to admit it, she cares.

She cares more than she probably should.

* * *

><p><strong>an: **I made Battler seem like a really horrible jerk here, huh? :D  
>Well, I guess he kind of is. Even though he didn't actually mean to hurt Beato- he's just dense XD<p>

I've been wanting to write a really dark BeatoBattler fic for a while now. That urge kind of creeped in here XD  
>This chapter is more of a transitional thing for the previous chapter and the next. It wasn't in my original plan, but I think it'll help later events seem more believable ^_^;<p>

**~renahhchen xoxo**


	7. Meltdown

**Under the scarlet sky****  
><strong>Chapter Seven

'Meltdown'

* * *

><p>There's something strange in the way Erika looks at her. It flitters across Erika's eyes like dust motes dancing through the air, or butterflies.<p>

Butterflies are so fragile though, aren't they?

The emotions are unspoken, almost unnoticeable, but Bernkastel still sees.

She notices more than she wants to.

More than is good for her.

What are those emotions that dance across Erika's eyes?

Unwavering loyalty. Admiration. Maybe a little fear- but that's good. Pieces _should_ be fearful of their Masters; pieces should know their place. If humanity ran on a hierarchy of fear the world would be a much easier place to live in. Nobody would step out of line. Nobody would commit crimes of love or passion. People wouldn't die pointlessly.

Fear's a simple emotion to understand; even easier to manipulate.

Bernkastel knows fear.

Everybody does.

But 'love' is only an illusion; and yet people still use it as an excuse to hurt others. That's beyond ridiculous.

It is at times like this, when Bernkastel contemplates the pros and cons of a world run on pain and hate with all that disgusting tenderness cut out, that she thinks she might not have a heart at all. She's beginning to sound insane, even to herself. You can't condition human beings to feel only one thing; that's impossible.

You could still try, though.

Lambdadelta's words worm their way through Bern's head. The more she tries to suppress them, the louder they resound.

_Erika's in love with you._

Maybe she is.

Maybe, despite the loyalty and admiration and, above all, the crushing fear (Bernkastel holds Erika's lifeline in one hand, a pair of scissors in the other), there's love in there, too.

Love is a disease.

It worms its way into the coldest of hearts.

When Erika looks at Bernkastel with _that look _the tea in Bernkastel's mouth turns to copper, thick and red. It tastes of blood. Something's corrupt here; a sickly fetor stoppers Bernkastel's mouth and curdles in her stomach.

Bernkastel feels sick.

* * *

><p>"M-master, thank you for helping me!"<p>

"I wasn't helping you out of kindness," says Bernkastel coldly, surveying Erika over the top of her teacup.

Tea, tea, it's always tea. It's the one thing in life that never gets boring.

It's the one thing in the world (in all the worlds) Bernkastel could perhaps admit to honestly, truly loving.

"I was helping you because you're pathetic. You failed last time- and without my help, surely you would fail again. How irritating. A piece who has to rely on her Master all the time is worth no more than dirt, wouldn't you agree?" says Bernkastel, her words carefully chosen to piece and penetrate; to embed shards of ice inside Erika's heart.

Bernkastel will stop the emotions that circulate in Erika's eyes before they have a chance to root and grow. Bernkastel never entertained any illusions that she would, one day, return Erika's feelings.

She doesn't toy with hearts.

She isn't quite _that_ cruel.

Instead, Bernkastel reaches her hand into chests and tears hearts away- leaving a gaping wound where ribs have been broken open and flesh pushed aside. That's the kindest thing to do. If people had no emotions they couldn't get hurt.

It's a simple philosophy.

Bernkastel isn't like Battler.

She's not a monster.

You need to smash hopeless dreams before they bloom out of control.

When Bernkastel's spectral fingers reach inside Erika's chest they rip and twist and tear with every word that comes out of her mouth, pulling out handfuls of roots smeared with thick blood like strawberry jam.

It's not enough.

She didn't hurt Erika _enough._

Those emotions are still present in Erika's eyes; a helpless kind of hope that's more depressing than it has any right to be.

"Y-yes, you're right, Master. I-I... I was a failure... I'm sorry... I'm so sorry!"

Erika doesn't understand.

She's just as bad as Beatrice.

"B-but now I, Furudo Erika, have the duct tape, I-I will win!" says Erika. She's trying to sound confident but her voice falters, the words on her tongue tripped up by fear in a tangled mess. Bernkastel doesn't bother to lift her head. "M-master...? Master, I promise, I won't fail you, n-not this time!"

Visions dance through Bernkastel's head. Her hands are at Erika's throat, choking the life out of her.

She holds her head under the waves and bashes her skull against sharp rocks, watching with curious interest as the sea, the sky and the sun all turn scarlet and run red. As the blood drains from Erika's body so, too, do all those feelings; those flowers foreign to Bernkastel that bloomed from twisted roots to make something even more hideous and confusing.

Love.

But it's all bleeding out now.

Bernkastel expects that image to be comforting.

It's not.

* * *

><p>After all this time (one thousand years?) Bernkastel would like to say she doesn't have nightmares anymore. Not now.<p>

She's not afraid.

Bernkastel is on her pedestal; a soulless, empty-eyed witch who purged herself of all weakness- all emotion. The only feelings left within her blackened heart are a sick amusement for mind games and boredom. The boredom always, always remains; stalking her, clinging to her skin like droplets of rain.

You cannot hurt a corpse. It's already dead.

That sounds like a good defense mechanism from all life's evils, doesn't it?

Bernkastel is the corpse now. She doesn't even move when Lambda shoves her fingers inside her.

But when Bernkastel's asleep she can't control the things the thinks. The memories- darkened rooms, enclosed spaces, cruel laughter and locked doors- come back to her in a rush, a deluge, a flood. How do you stand when your legs have been swept away from underneath you?

Bernkastel builds her defenses when she's awake; rebuilding over and over again, then slipping into the shadows like an alley cat whenever something threatens to hurt her. However, when she dreams the rush of remembrance always comes back to wash everything away.

When she dreams she's not a witch anymore.

She's _nothing._

Hardly even a human.

In her dreams she's usually alone, but not all the time.

It's better when she's by herself.

It always has been.

When you're alone nothing can hurt you. Humans harbor strange beliefs that being alone means being defenseless, but what is there to defend yourself from if the only person in the locked room is you? Thoughts can grow claws and teeth and rip and tear, pulling people apart from the inside- but not if you sit by yourself in a corner, a broken doll, and forget to think.

If you forget you're a human being at all then being alone isn't so bad.

You become unreachable.

Emotionless.

Being emotionless with a paralyzed body isn't so bad.

But Bernkastel isn't always alone in her dreams (nightmares, really- but that's not true, either, because they really happened. At least, she thinks they did. She can't remember).

That woman, the tall woman with the purple eyes and straight black hair, is all cruel smiles and false kindness in her dreams nightmares memories- and sometimes Bernkastel isn't herself (not her current self; but then again, in her dreams she never is; in her dreams she never has any power, none at all) but a younger girl who looks a lot like Erika.

Bernkastel trusted her once.

Bernkastel trusted that woman with the purple eyes and cruel smiles and the love for stories- any story (because all witches hate boredom).

But Bernkastel had never realized, until it was far too late and her innocence was slipping away like water through cupped hands, that Auaurora would willing to play around with the life of her 'beloved miko', too, for the sake of creating an entertaining tale.

She was nothing more than a character in a story.

A world that works like a loaded dice; each throw designed to show only failure.

A world where everything worked against her.

She wasn't meant to win.

But she did anyway.

* * *

><p><em>"I'm sorry I was so cruel to you. I never meant to hurt you so much, my poor little miko..."<em>

That never happened.

* * *

><p><em>"You're such a talented little miko! You have such a lovely way of speaking; your voice is so expressive~ I could listen to you read aloud all day, kukuku~"<em>

_"A-ah..." her face flushes light pink. "T-thank you, Master!"_

That did.

* * *

><p><em>She was abandoned and left to die- just like a cat kicked out onto the street.<em>

_She doesn't know how long she's been here, but she supposes it doesn't matter._

_She hardly even remembers who she is anymore; she's been playing a role for so long._

_Her real name._

_Her age._

_Her reason for being alive._

_Is there a reason?_

_But she does remember _her_._

_Purple eyes and long dark hair. A comforting smile. They used to sit and drink tea together, didn't they? She would read aloud from a large book split open on her lap, the pages turning underneath her ivory fingers, and her her Master's eyelids would flicker shut and she would lose herself inside the story._

_Bernkastel used to be good at telling stories, she remembers; her words shaping new worlds that rose from the dust, giving life to the people that populate them. She spun amazing stories of witches and demons and battles like games of chess where pieces were expendable and death could be reversed by magic. Reading tales like that always filled her heart with happiness- but when her Master smiled at her she felt even happier._

_If she closes her eyes and tries to remember, she can still taste the tea on her tongue._

_She can still remember the stories she used to read._

_She can still see the smile on her Master's face._

_The smile when she sentenced her to death- to wither and rot away, for eternity, in this closed dark place until she can hardly remember who she is anymore._

_But she remembers her Master._

_Her friend._

_And her executioner._

* * *

><p><em>She thinks there might be rats in the walls.<em>

_They're watching her in the darkness._

_Thousands of them._

_When she closes her eyes (though she can hardly tell whether her eyes are opened or closed anymore, it's so dark) she swears she can hear scuttling. Paws on the floor. Drip, drip, drip. Is there leaking water somewhere, or is she merely hearing things? The only comforting, constant noise is the sound of her own heartbeat, nestled safe and warm in her ribcage like a bird in a nest._

_Her Master will save her._

_Her Master cared about her._

_R-right...?_

_She won't leave her here in the dirt to pick up the pieces of her long-forgotten game._

_She wouldn't._

_She was more than a piece- she was her Master's friend._

_Wasn't she?_

_Maybe her Master got bored of her._

_Or maybe her Master never really meant what she said to begin with._

* * *

><p><em>She would hate her Master if she had enough energy.<em>

_And, foolishly enough… she still clings onto the hope her Master will save her._

_Her Master hasn't forgotten her._

_The taste of tea spreads across her tongue; tea parties of eons ago when they sat together eating sugar cookies from ornate plates and sharing smiles like real friends. She would read stories, and her Master would smile and say "I'd be quite lost without you, my little miko."_

_But that was a lie._

_She is the one who is lost without her Master- like a doll whose eyes have been poked out, rattling around inside her skull._

_She was always good at telling stories, but she can't even make herself believe her Master will return anymore._

* * *

><p><em>The rats are watching her.<em>

_She can hear them scuttling about in the shadows._

_Inside her brain._

_She wonders if she's becoming paranoid._

_Then she wonders if she's gone insane._

_After a while (days? Weeks? Months? Years?) the imaginary sounds of imaginary rats are a comfort._

_They don't exist._

_But if they did, maybe she wouldn't feel so lonely._

* * *

><p><em>It's alright to welcome delusions if there's nobody left to judge you.<em>

_Who's going to call her crazy now?_

* * *

><p><em>She pinches a lump of skin between her fingers and feels pain- but she can't trust what she sees and what she hears and what she feels anymore because it's all distorted with desperation.<em>

_The rats aren't real._

_Neither is the water- but it still drip drip drips inside her mind at every waking moment._

_The pain feels more tangible, though._

_Pain._

_If she can feel pain she still exists._

_Your emotions can lie to you- but pain can't._

_When she pinches herself she doesn't wake up._

* * *

><p>When Bernkastel awakes her head is a pool of mixed-around memory that ripples and distorts with every slight movement. It's difficult to distinguish the real world from the dreamscapes splaying out inside her head.<p>

She can still taste tea on her tongue and feel the tears in her eyes.

She thought she left those feelings behind her- but every single night her dreams prove her wrong, until it feels like her own brain is laughing at her. This is a fun game, isn't it? Isn't it?

Bernkastel's pale fingers fist in her hair (it's just like Erika's; no, that's not right, Erika's is just like _her's_), tugging, trying to dissolve the dreams that still swarm her like flies.

* * *

><p><em>There are rats in the walls.<em>

_They're watching her._

* * *

><p>When Bernkastel's eyes flicker open she's met with red, red, red; all-consuming red that eats up her vision and freezes her in place.<p>

There's laughter, too.

Lambdadelta is sat on Bernkastel's stomach, her gloved fingers threading through Bern's hair. Lambda's toes, devoid of shoes or socks, curl against the crumpled bed sheets. Lambda is missing her usual hat, too, and her cruel smirk. Instead, there is only a small, soft smile.

Lambdadelta hums to herself softly, some strange tune Bernkastel doesn't know (and Lambda probably doesn't, either- but she was never the most musically minded of people), as her fingers continue to play with Bernkastel's hair.

It's filled with knots.

Bernkastel is falling apart under Lambdadelta's fingertips. She can almost feel her body crumble. Bernkastel's skin is ashen, too pale, and deep purple grooves are carved under her bloodshot eyes. The veins on her wrists stand out with alarming clarity under the paper-thin skin; a reminder that maybe she's not quite that untouchable after all.

Lambdadelta could kill her if she wanted to.

It wouldn't even be very difficult; not when Bernkastel's mind hovers half-way between the real world and memories and she feels more like that naïve little girl than her hollow, heartless self.

She looks like a wreck.

Ugly.

Not at all a sleeping beauty.

Bernkastel knows it.

Even so, Lambda says she's beautiful.

Then, slowly, Lambdadelta leans down and presses a light kiss to Bernkastel's forehead.

"Bad dream?~"

When Bernkastel replies her voice is emotionless, as always- but the monosyllabic response conveys more than it should. "...No."

It's true.

If it was a mere dream, it wouldn't have unsettled Bernkastel nearly as much.

Lambda keeps smiling- but not it's deranged or mutated or twisted at all. Unlike Lambda's other smiles, it doesn't look like a gash carved hastily into a pumpkin with a sharp knife; her teeth aren't like glass and her pointed tongue isn't cruel.

A band of light flitters across Lambda's face, playing through her blonde hair so it shimmers gold.

"I guess it was a bad memory, then?"

More like a bad life.

But that would sound melodramatic.

* * *

><p>And then the princess married the prince and they all lived happily ever after.<p>

How does that work?

It doesn't work.

Not in the real world.

* * *

><p><em>Her eyes are burning. Her throat is sore. There are creatures crawling under her skin and images flickering through her mind.<em>

_She thinks she might be going insane._

_Then she realizes she doesn't really care._

* * *

><p>Bernkastel tries to console herself by drinking tea. Her miserable reflection stares back at her; skin sickly like a ghost, held together over her skull and pulled a little too taught. Her eyes are even more blank than usual. Her fingers are trembling.<p>

Bad dreams...

But Bernkastel doesn't 'dream', not really.

She _remembers._

The memories bite through her in bursts of pain. Pain means you still exist and you still feel and the world under your fingertips won't explode into shadows and lies and stardust, so the memories must be true. When she's asleep she's trapped inside that room again-

Just like _him._

But he escaped.

Didn't he?

He deserves to suffer much, much more.

* * *

><p>"M-master... I-I'm so sorry, Master-"<p>

"Be quiet."

"B-but Master-"

"Stop crying," Bernkastel says, her voice cold. "You can cry only when I say it's allowed."

Erika thought she was going to die during her confrontation with Beatrice in the chapel. She even cried; tears running down her cheeks, her eyes red and puffy (how undignified! It would have been funny if it wasn't so pathetic) as her body melted away. Two truths can exist at the same time; she'd learnt something new.

Today is a day of discovery for Erika, it seems.

You can die more than once.

Bernkastel will teach her that, too.

Hope, hope, hope; as long as you cling onto 'hope' can you really be defeated? But life is hope_less_; especially for a piece like Erika who was only placed on the game board for Bernkastel's own amusement. She was always destined to die.

How did that so-called 'detective' dare stand there, her body melting away from underneath her, with a look in her eyes that declared, proudly, she was _better _than Bernkastel?

But Bernkastel won't let Erika die. Not yet.

Not for a while.

Erika can't die unless Bernkastel lets her.

She won't die until she's learnt her lesson.

"This will hurt a little, but I'm doing it for your own good~" says Bernkastel, a sick little giggle forcing its way from her throat.

"M-master-"

* * *

><p>"<em>I'd be quite lost without you, my little miko."<em>

_Liar._

* * *

><p><em>In Bernkastel's memories (or is this a nightmare?) she sits with Auaurora, a teacup held in her fingers. She presses the rim of the cup to her lips-<em>

_The liquid that passes through her lips isn't tea. It's thick and heady, and nearly makes Bernkastel gag._

_She draws the cup away from her mouth, looking at the contents._

_The liquid is bright red and it tastes of copper._

_Thick, white, wriggling bodies squirm about in the sea of rusty blood._

_Maggots._

"_What's wrong, my miko?" asks Auaurora, tilting her head to one side. Her purple eyes are soulless. "Do you not like your tea?"_

_If her Master says it's tea, then surely…_

_It looks like blood._

_It smells of blood._

_It is blood._

_Bernkastel still drinks it, though._

_She has to obey her Master._

_Her Master would never do anything so cruel- so, obviously, she was seeing things._

_It still tastes of blood, and it burns when it goes down._

* * *

><p><em>She's been trapped in the dark for so long- a doll without eyes, inside her skull, blind and lost and all alone- that she no longer remembers to fear her Master.<em>

_Instead, the only emotion that stirs inside her empty heart is hate._

_With the loss of hope came the birth of hate. It fuels her body; keeps her going onwards._

_It makes her strong._

_Everything else was cut away and thrown aside._

* * *

><p>Bernkastel's index finger presses against Erika's left eye. The lids are forced open with duct tape ("you know what this is, right, Erika?~") so Erika can't even blink. She can only accept her punishment.<p>

"You can scream now."

Erika's eye doesn't pop under the pressure as Bernkastel would have hoped- that would have been more theatrical, after all. Lambda would have seen the beauty in such a thing. It doesn't pop, though. Instead, Erika's eye merely seems to… _give up_. It caves in on itself, leaking transparent fluid that dribbles down Erika's cheek.

A parody of tears.

Erika shudders, her head cracking against the floor and her fingers spasming- but she doesn't scream, not even when Bernkastel slowly, deliberately, draws her index finger in and out of her ravaged eye socket; scrambling round the watery mess of vitreous fluid as though she were mixing the contents of a teacup with a silver spoon.

Erika doesn't scream.

Erika's teeth break through her lower lip, carving it like paper. Blood drips slowly down her chin in reddish, coppery lines; a stark contrast against her white skin.

But she doesn't scream.

Bernkastel's eyes narrow into slits.

"Haven't you forgotten I'm your Master?" Bernkastel hisses, her finger- two fingers- jabbing deeper into Erika's ruined eye socket, twisting; there must be so many delicate nerves in there that are being mixed around, sticky with the grey fluid of Erika's punctured eyeball. "You'll scream when I tell you to scream."

But Erika doesn't.

...That's okay, though.

They could do this all day.

Maybe she will.

* * *

><p><strong>an: **...meltdown is a very fitting song for this chapter :D  
>Hmn, I don't know how I feel about this chapter. I was going for a rather disjointed, messy style here for 'effect' but I don't know how effective it really was XD Hmn. I'm not sure how happy with this.<br>Also, I don't know the details on the logic error Bern was in (was it Higurashi? Was it more like the closed room Battler got stuck in?) so I didn't give it too much detail XD But now I really want to write a Bernkastel/Featherine fic… XD

This chapter was /greatly/ inspired by music, too. I listened to a bunch of songs on repeat in my own awesome playlist made for this chapter; Meathook and Eat the Dirt by Hannah Fury, Castledown by Emilie Autumn, Angeldeamon and Coloured by Leandra and Girlscout by Jack off Jill (esp for the last section) :D And, of course, Meltdown. There are numerous references to these songs scattered throughout this chapter :D

**~renahhchen xoxo**


	8. Chain girl

**Under the scarlet sky****  
><strong>Chapter Eight

'Chain girl'

* * *

><p>"Kikiki~ I guess even the great witch Bernkastel has bad dreams, too. It's nice to know none of us are immune."<p>

Bernkastel doesn't say anything. She doesn't think she can, which is a rarity (variety is the spice of life). Generally, Bernkastel has any number of apathetic put-downs in store to respond to Lambdadelta. Either she cuts through Lambdadelta's words with carefully chosen poison sharper than red truth, or she simply ignores her. However... Bernkastel doesn't ignore Lambdadelta.

Not this time.

She can't.

The strangest thing is... that she doesn't want to.

Lamdadelta's face softens as she looks at Bernkastel. Something strangely akin to worry flickers across her face- but it's only for a few seconds, and it disappears into the ether before Bernkastel can blink. Lambdadelta's vulnerable, more unguarded expression is soon replaced with one of her more typical, cat-like smiles. Bernkastel wonders whether she imagined it.

Then, she wonders why she would want to imagine it at all.

She can't think of a reason, and it hurts her head trying to do so, so she stops.

It's not cowardly. There's… simply no point in thinking about painful, confusing things. It's logical. Bernkastel has always been a logical person.

'Love' is so complicated; even 'love' that only equates to 'friendship'- and love is so completely _illogical _contemplating it makes Bernkastel feel as though she's beating her head against a brick wall. Letting another person that close is dangerous. Idiotic. Laughable, even. It opens up more opportunities to hurt and be hurt. Love is a pointless endeavor, and maybe Bernkastel believed in it once but she can't afford to be that childish now. She feels like she's standing on the edge of a dark abyss. One from move, one misplaced foot, and she'll go falling.

Bernkastel thought she would have no problem destroying Erika. That stupid girl was, after all, a mere piece. It wasn't Bernkastel's fault Erika began to develop 'feelings' for her; Bernkastel even tried to discourage it. She didn't want...

Well.

What she wanted no longer matters. What's passed is passed- and that is simply the way it shall be.

How does the old saying go? There's no use crying over spilt milk.

Bernkastel doesn't cry, anyway. It's another human response that seems completely pointless. Shedding tears won't help anything, save giving you red eyes and a pounding headache.

By the time Bernkastel prized Erika's eyes out of her still-moving, still-screaming body, it was far too late. Lambdadelta was right. No matter what Bernkastel did, no matter what she said- no matter how much blood leaked from Erika's body as it was cut and torn and sewn back up together again- that light did not fade from Erika's face. Not even when Bernkastel held one of her eyes between her fingertips and squeezed; squeezed down hard.

Eyes were surprisingly difficult to burst.

Love was even more difficult.

It didn't go away. It wouldn't go away. Bernkastel couldn't wipe it clean.

Even though she cut and hacked and tore, it...

It didn't change anything.

Pointless.

Helpless.

Some people call 'falling in love' a miracle- but perhaps falling _out _of love, for some humans, had an even higher probability stacked against it. No matter what Bernkastel did, she could not make Erika hate her; not even when she stuck her fingers in her empty eyes and mixed nerves together to send sparks of electric pain shooting through the younger girl's body.

Bernkastel is the witch of miracles, but... she can't make miracles happen.

Nobody can.

Not even with violence.

Bernkastel, despite her title as the 'cruelest witch' thinks- always has thought- that violence is tasteless. Graceless. However, even when she tried to use pain as a weapon, it did not work. There are some human beings not even Bernkastel can break, and some hopes- helpless though they are- that can not be snuffed out.

Humans... are quite strong.

Resilient.

Bernkastel respects humans, sometimes.

And yet, at the same time, she fears them.

Why are they so desperate to be unhappy?

Why...?

Even though Bernkastel frequently has nightmares, that particular bad dream- her hands buried in Erika's organs, trying to search for the blackened withered roots of unrequited love that just wouldn't come out- was the worst. When she awoke, she felt strangely dead.

Empty.

Perhaps human beings, with their 'love' (stupid, pointless) are stronger than her.

Bernkastel tried to move on... But maybe, even now- even as she holds the title of the world's cruelest witch- she's still nothing more than a young, frightened child, running from a concept she doesn't understand.

And this thought terrifies her.

"Bern...? Are you alright?" asks Lambdadelta, her voice still strangely soft.

Lambdadelta understands.

Lambdadelta is not afraid.

Bernkastel can see that in the other witch's face, so clear and bright it burns; scalds her, like boiling tea. If Lambdadelta were afraid of other people she would never get so close to Bernkastel, and she would never thread pieces of candy through her hair whilst humming strange and soothing lullabies, and she would never say 'I love you'.

Bernkastel has never said 'I love you'. Bernkastel has never once returned Lambdadelta's feelings. And yet, even so… Lambdadelta is not afraid to say it over and over again.

'_I love you.'_

Lambdadelta is not afraid of love.

W-was _she…?_

Was Bernkastel… afraid…?

She always assumed Lambdadelta was lying- but maybe she only _forced_ herself to believe this, because if Lambda's words of love were true Bernkastel would have been terrified.

She hates being loved.

It's even worse than being hated.

When people hate you they want to hurt you, and it's simple, plain- easy to understand. When people love you they claim they want to protect you. They make you love them back. Then, when they do hurt you- it's inevitable (because everybody makes mistakes)- it's all the more painful because you trusted them.

People break that trust.

They break it as though it means nothing- when, to some people, it could have been their whole world.

Humans build their lives on bonds of trust.

So, too, do foolish young girls who cruel Masters who leave them for dead and don't come back.

Some lovers survive such crushing pains- but these pains never disappear and they never go away. Instead, they come back, thicker and faster, in a deluge like torrential rain.

Bernkastel would rather be hated than loved.

But…

But she doesn't want to be alone, either.

If she's alone… who would be there to reassure her she still exists?

If she's alone… then how would she know she ever escaped the closed room at all?

Bernkastel never realized it before; but- as she stares into Lambdadelta's bright red eyes- something terrible hits her, as it has never done before. A 'revelation'? Perhaps. But Bernkastel is too stunned to give the feeling a name.

Bernkastel needs Lambdadelta.

She has always needed her.

Despite Lambdadelta's cruel smiles, cold laughter, sadistic mannerisms and… and, oh, sometimes she can be so very _irritating_ it makes Bernkastel's blood boil, because nobody can irritate Bernkastel like Lambdadelta can.

Nobody… can make Bernkastel _feel _like Lambda can.

Pain.

Fear.

Hatred.

And maybe…

Maybe a little bit of longing.

After all, Bernkastel never pulls away when Lambdadelta pins her down, and she never tries to avoid the small kisses and shows of affection; 'affection' which quickly becomes something more violent when Bernkastel fails to respond.

Life would be boring without Lambdadelta.

Lonely.

Being alive for one thousand years can be… very miserable.

It wouldn't really be a 'life' at all. It would be no different from being sat inside that cat box of possibilities, destined to have unhappy endings over and over again.

Maybe Bernkastel is beginning to understand Beatrice's plight… just a little.

Bernkastel doesn't say anything. She's too prideful to say anything. However, when she looks at Lambdadelta, her eyes wide and her whole body quivering with a fear she can't express (she shouldn't be feeling this, she can't be feeling this- but maybe she's been feeling it all along, and she can't stop now…), Bernkastel knows.

She feels something pulsate inside her chest.

Something warm.

Her heart… might have thawed out at last. Or maybe it was defrosting for years.

She doesn't know.

There are too many 'maybes' and nothing is concrete. Feelings are too complicated. It's easier not to feel anything at all.

But she's always _felt _things.

She's always been 'human'.

And there is a limit to how many emotions you can suppress, before they begin to swallow you up whole.

Emotions have sharp teeth and hungry jaws. They hurt.

Everything hurts.

Why is life so painful?

It's a great flaw in being alive and being a human, Bernkastel muses. All the pain. It's a little excessive.

…Oh well.

Bernkastel doesn't speak. She doesn't say a word. She can't- and she's sure, if she tried to open her mouth, her heart would spill out onto the bed sheets, turning white bright red. Bernkastel has never felt so exposed- and Lambda's tender smile feels like a knife to her chest, twisting and turning until it _burns._

Bernkastel doesn't say anything.

She decides to abandon speech altogether. What has it done for her lately?

Quivering like a leaf (a frightened girl left alone in the dark), Bernkastel wraps her arms round Lambdadelta's body and buries her head against her chest. She smells of sugar and candies and roses- or maybe Bernkastel's senses have gone haywire because she's obviously going insane, must have left what little remains of her intelligence in her sleep- and she feels so fragile, so breakable, just like glass.

There's nothing 'romantic' about it- not really.

It's desperate.

_Don't leave me._

_If you leave… I won't know who I am anymore._

_I can hardly even remember myself._

_You have to stay here and remind me._

…_Please?._

Bernkastel has never been so forward before, and she thinks Lambdadelta is a little surprised- but she soon gets over it. Lambdadelta is able to adapt to anything. Maybe, being the witch of certainty, she was always sure this would happen.

"Bern~ Have my amazing charms finally broken you?~" Lambdadelta says, smiling. There's a light touch of humor to her voice, but it's not cruel. It's… playful.

Bernkastel doesn't say anything, but she thinks she's trembling- though she's not sure (how is she not sure?). Her body is caught up in the bed sheets, but it feels so cold- and Lambda is the only warm thing.

The only living creature in a sterile white sea of snow and cold.

"I think I like it more when you played hard-to-get. You're squishing me. Your hair's all in my eyes, too~" said Lambdadelta. She giggles.

There is a small pause. Then Bernkastel says softly- almost tentatively (and she hates herself for that, she really does. Lambdadelta will never let her forget this)- "you don't mean it, though. You're a terrible liar. Around me, anyway."

Lambdadelta giggles. "Hehe~ I guess you know me too well~ I just like complaining. Think nothing of it. It's fine, it's fine. Having a poor, trembling little Bern pressed up against me like this is like a dream come true!~ Of course, I always _knew_ it would come true... I had to wait one thousand years… But it's worth it. Kikikikiki~~~"

Bernkastel… feels safer. Safer from what, she doesn't know. Dark corridors. Bad dreams. Memories.

Cold purple eyes and a kind laugh; tea made of blood and rats in the walls.

At the same time, however, she feels… nervous. Restless. Her heart begins to beat faster and faster. She thinks she liked it more when it stayed still and didn't move- but this warmth is nice, too.

She doesn't know what she's doing anymore.

Is that a good thing? Is that growth?

Or has she finally gone completely mad?

Will she start wearing candy as fashion accessories like Lambdadelta?

…It's best not to think about that.

"Bern~" says Lambda softly, resting her chin atop of Bern's head. "Do you want to talk about your nightmare?"

Bernkastel shakes her head.

"…That's okay. We can talk later. After all… Eternity's a pretty long time."

* * *

><p>"Ah~ Hello, my little miko."<p>

Her voice is soft and gentle, like the breeze touching waves on the beach. She sounds so calm and quiet; warm and tender. Maybe she even sounds a little motherly.

It's all offset by her cold, dead, empty eyes.

Those eyes always used to unnerve Bernkastel just a little- even when she was a young girl (not a real witch) with no concept of cruelty.

This woman is tainted with death and bad blood and old memories, and Bernkastel cannot bring herself to trust her, despite her kind voice.

Bernkastel can't bring herself to trust many people.

She would be a fool if she did forget.

She can't forget.

Bernkastel does not fear this woman- not really. Not even when Auaurora surrounded her with red-eyed cats hungry for meat. Bernkastel is quite good at controlling misbehaving little cats; they all listen to her. It must be her presence. Maybe, Bernkastel wonders, her own violet eyes are even deader than Auaurora's now.

Then again, maybe that's only to be expected.

Auaurora tried to put her through hell again; trapping her in a dark room with twisting corridors, with the odds stacked against her that she would never find the elusive tea party held in her honor at all. It would have been disadvantageous for Auaurora if Bernkastel truly died, though. After all, who would be her miko then? Ange has already gone.

Ange.

Hmn.

That girl sure is popular with witches and demons. Maybe that's Bernkastel's fault. It probably is, given she stalked that child from an early age- twisting her relationship with Eva to her liking so Ange would one day be a suitable piece. Ange was used a pawn by Kyrie, then Bernkastel. Somehow, she found her way into Auaurora's lap, too.

That feels somewhat fitting.

Poor Ange. Her life will never be the same again- it's been shaken up and twisted upside-down, and most likely the other humans think she's crazy.

How sad.

It's so sad Bernkastel could laugh- because, to be honest, it's pretty funny, too. You can find humor in most things if you're prepared to surrender your initial feelings of shock and horror; and Bernkastel has been through so much fear she thinks she might be numb to it now.

It only hurts her in her dreams.

It only hurts her when she's with Lambdadelta- because Lambdadelta understands her fear better than anyone.

Otherwise, she wouldn't insist on having their sleepovers. But she does. Maybe it's because she empathizes- or maybe she just wants to giggle quietly at somebody in pain.

It could be both at the same time.

People are filled with contradictions.

Even though Auaurora presented Bernkastel with various obstacles, the witch of miracles cleared them all. She found the whimsical old theater-going witch sat in her room full of books, drinking tea with that unreadable smile on her face.

Bernkastel always knew she would end up there once more anyway, so it doesn't really shock her.

She's not afraid, either. Auaurora is just a senile old woman; a witch who's lived so long she barely remembers who she is, her own name, or why she is still alive. She merely... exists. It's a sad fate- but that's what happens when you continuously condemn your own mikos to death just for your enjoyment. You get a little bitter, a little twisted- and then you end up alone.

Sometimes Bernkastel welcomes the idea of loneliness. At other times, it scares her.

She hates the idea of 'love', because love means broken promises and broken hearts. Love lets other people get to you; it lets them crawl under your skin like maggots, until they've invaded your thoughts and feelings completely and you're not yourself anymore.

Pain is easier to understand.

Bernkastel's whole life has revolved around pain; revolved around loneliness.

But…

With Lambdadelta, it's… a little different.

Bernkastel can be as cruel as she wants to Lambda, and Lambda would never leave her. Sometimes it's a comfort. At other times, it feels like Lambdadelta is getting so close, with her red eyes and wide smiles, that she might gobble up Bernkastel whole.

Bernkastel isn't afraid of Auaurora…

But she might be afraid of Lambdadelta.

And yet, if Lambdadelta did not exist, Bernkastel would not have anybody left to hurt her- because nobody else can reach her on her pedestal. Not now. Bernkastel would not let anybody else slide their nails down her unprotected skin or bite her collarbone until they draw blood. Bernkastel would not let anybody to tease her mercilessly, or plait her hair and thread it through with candy, or sing soft love songs to her, or press against at night when the bad dreams become so overwhelming Bernkastel thinks she might be going insane.

She only lets Lambdadelta do those things.

Lambdadelta is always there.

Is it a blessing or a curse?

Bernkastel doesn't know. She's used to knowing most things, but she doesn't know this- and maybe it's good to be uninformed about some subjects, because then life would become dreadfully dull and boring.

Auaurora destroys all her mikos without a second thought- and this is what happened to her. She is a demented, lonely old hag drinking tea by herself for all eternity, with no idea who she is or what she's been doing anymore. At least Bernkastel knows her name- and, if she ever forgot, Lambdadelta would tell her.

Lambdadelta ensures Bernkastel still exists.

…Oh. The old theater-going witch is talking. She wants Bernkastel to uncover the truth about Beatrice's death. Winch open the ribs of a story, pull out the guts. Expose the truth for the world to see- but it's not the world, not really. This is all for Auaurora and her own sick enjoyment.

It… doesn't sound as appealing as Bernkastel thought it would.

She always wanted to destroy Beatrice's illusion of love- but now, she…

She feels so tired.

Everything's beginning to feel a bit pointless.

* * *

><p>The bad dreams don't stop.<p>

There's nothing worse than being trapped inside your own head.

* * *

><p>When Bernkastel slices her sickle into Clair's unprotected stomach, blood drip-drip-dripping to the floor like drops of crimson rain, Bernkastel doesn't feel as elated as she once thought she would.<p>

Instead, she feels hollow.

Empty.

This isn't fun anymore.

It was never really fun to begin with.

It's just…

Sad.

Terribly, terribly sad.

She has to put on a good performance for her old Master, though.

* * *

><p>When Bernkastel rests with her head against Lambdadelta's chest, her arms round her back, she wonders whether she's lost something. She doesn't feel quite the same anymore.<p>

Did she win? Did she lose? Does it matter?

…Maybe not.

Her hands smell horribly of blood.

How romantic.

* * *

><p><strong>an: **So realizations are made and… stuff o:  
>Wow.<br>I think the next chapter might be the last one. I like finishing stuff. It excites me XD I hope this chapter is… decent XD I had some problems with tenses not sounding right and not doing what I want them to do at the start of the chapter (damn it present tense… you're fun to write in but I get you mixed up with past a lot XD), but… I hope it's okay.  
>I hope :

**~renahhchen xoxo**


	9. Alice

**Under the scarlet sky****  
><strong>Chapter Nine

'Alice'

* * *

><p>Bernkastel feels... empty.<p>

She didn't expect to feel empty. After cracking open Clair's body, breaking brittle bird bones and paper-pale twig like limbs, drenching her hands in blood, bright rusty red up to the elbows, Bernkastel expected to feel _something_. She's doesn't know what, but anything would be better than nothing…

…Right?

Surely, after cutting into the illusion of the 'witch' (a lonely servant girl hidden behind blue eyes and blonde hair; it's funny how six years can feel like one thousand when your heart is broken), Bernkastel should feel victorious?

Bernkastel knew how weak, how pitiful, Beatrice really was, even from the beginning. Perhaps it was instinct. After all, Bernkastel used to read many stories to Auaurora. Some tales revolved around deception, and young girls who disguised themselves as others to seek approval, or even 'love'. Doesn't that story sound a little familiar? Perhaps because she read those stories, and her natural instinct, Bernkastel was able to tell. It's easy to pick the real witches apart from the wide-eyed, love struck little girls. Beatrice was a child who had stolen the title of a 'witch' with no real knowledge of what being a witch really meant.

How funny.

How laughable.

Bernkastel knows what being a witch means. She knows it all too well- because she had to achieve her title by cutting out all the human weakness from her heart. She became a witch when she ceased being human. Being a 'witch' means being alone; flitting between fragments desperately, searching for something to latch onto. Something to live for. Something to give your endless life- looping round, like a circle- meaning.

It never works.

That is what it means to be a witch.

It is the crushing boredom, oppressive loneliness, the segregation from the rest of humanity and- in the end- that breakdown of moral values in the desperate search to entertain yourself (even if it's only a few hours; a drop in the ocean compared to a witch's never-ending life) that makes witches heartless.

Happiness drains away.

Pain is the only thing that remains.

Pain and fear and boredom.

Always.

Forever.

Beatrice was too human to be a witch because she still had the capacity for happiness. She still had the capacity for love. And, in the end, she got her happy ending; waltzing off into the Golden Land hand in hand with her fairytale prince. Witches don't get happy endings though, do they? Witches get burnt in ovens or dissolved to ash and scattered in the breeze.

Witches don't get happy endings because they are irredeemable.

_Evil._

Witches are cruel and bitter and cold and twisted- because all witches were humans once, but the world doesn't let them remain that way. The world squashes those innocent, wide-eyed children with its gnarled fingers to derive pain from purity.

How do you create a monster?

You abuse somebody to the point where all their morals bend and break; you shatter them like glass; you snap their spine and poke out their eyes and leave them to rot away in the darkness surrounded by dripping water and scurrying rats and the knowledge that maybe, if they're smart enough and they don't stop thinking, they can prize themselves of that hell to wreak revenge.

You make a monster by abusing somebody... and then giving them power.

Is that really so evil?

Aren't monsters something to be pitied, then?

Why is it that humans can have happy endings but witches cannot?

Bernkastel might have beaten the illusion of the witch- but an 'illusion' is all she shattered, because Beatrice was never a real witch anyway.

Bernkastel hasn't won anything.

Her fingers are covered in Clair's blood.

Her head is filled with Beatrice's secrets.

And her heart is filled with...

Nothing.

It's empty.

Maybe Bernkastel thought- a foolish, stupid thought- that if she defeated Beatrice, defeated this sick emotion of 'love' that twists the mind and inspires hopes in a hopeless world, then she would triumph. But, in the end, Bernkastel was the one waiting for a miracle.

Witches don't win.

Witches never win.

Beatrice is happy with Battler.

And Bernkastel is... alone.

Just like always.

Well.

A small, emotionless smile tugs at Bernkastel's lips. Her eyes remain cold and icy. There is no humor about her face- but her expression isn't derisive or cynical or even cruel. Instead, it's self-deprecating- and maybe a little sad.

_Stupid girl._

_What were you expecting, anyway?_

By engaging in this game with Beatrice, she was on the losing side to begin with. It was like trying to play a game of chess with only a king; completely impossible to gain the upper hand over your opponent, who still has all their pieces. Bernkastel struggled bravely- but struggling just isn't good enough. In the end, Beatrice and Battler defeated her.

The prince and princess lived happily ever after.

But nobody cares what happens to the witch.

Nobody ever wants to know.

And nobody thinks to ask.

"Hey, Bern?~ Are you okay? You look... a little down."

The only people who care about witches are other witches.

But… maybe that's okay…

Maybe she's not alone after all.

* * *

><p>"Penny for your thoughts?~" says Lambdadelta. Her voice is unusually gentle, even though there's some teasing humor laced between her words. Then again, Lambda wouldn't be Lambda without that cat-like smirk; eyes sparkling, mouth shaped like a sideways '3'. It's ridiculous, but it's strangely comforting, too.<p>

Bernkastel can't help but snort at this. "My, my. Are my thoughts really only worth that much?"

"Welll, it depends~ If you want to talk to me about... I dunno... the weather, or tea, or something, I wouldn't even pay a penny~ Kikikiki~"

"What if I happen to find the formation of cumulonimbus clouds interesting? Perhaps I was dying to have a conversation pertaining to them."

Lambdadelta smirks. "Then I would say all these years of umeboshi tea and boredom really _have _broken you, my dear Bern~ You better watch it, or you'll end up like your good friend Auaurora."

"No... I'm not at that stage yet. I can still remember my name."

"I wouldn't let you forget it," says Lambdadelta, smiling. "You know that. I'll always be with you, yes?~"

"Annoying me every step of the way."

"Of course~ And forever it shall be~ Kikikiki~"

Bern pauses.

Despite her playful giggle, Lambda's red eyes suddenly seem so intense; almost as if they're going to swallow her up. Bern shudders, as though maggots are embedded in her bloodstream; flowing under her skin. She doesn't know what to say. How did such a light-hearted conversation (rare, but not entirely unheard of, between Lambda and Bern. Mainly they occur between five and six in the morning, or thereabouts, when both are tired and Bern can't remember to feel afraid and Lambda can't remember, in reality, she's incredibly annoying and pushy and dominating) turn into this?

W-why does she feel afraid?

She doesn't want to be alone- and yet, at the same time... when you're alone, nobody can hurt you.

Lambda might be there to remind Bern she's alive now- but promises aren't eternal.

'_Forever_' is quite a lofty statement.

And Benrkastel knows it's a lie.

'_I'll come back for you. I'll ride a white horse and I'll rescue you- and you can be my princess! Ihihihi!'_

Just like that.

Unfulfilled promises cause only pain and misery. Love never remains.

Boredom is the only thing that remains eternal.

That, and fear.

In the end, Bernkastel doesn't reply.

She can't.

"Tch." Lambda sighs, rolling her eyes. Then- moving quickly, too quickly- her fingers take Bern's shoulders. She presses their faces together. After years upon years of physical contact and honeyed words dripping poison Bernkastel shouldn't recoil from this- but she does, and she hardly knows why.

Bernkastel hates being confused.

Lambdadelta holds her feelings between her fingers. She's being played with.

"Bern, don't look at me like that."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're staring at me like I'm a stranger," Lambda clarifies. "Sometimes your eyes look so dead and empty. It pisses me off."

"I apologize that my facial features do not meet your high expectations."

"Muu... I-it's... you..." Lambda scowls, throwing her hands in the air as she tries to make a point- and makes it badly. "Sometimes I'll be having a conversation with you, and you'll reply and it's fiiine- but then I say one little thing, and in a split second-" Lambda clicks her fingers "-your eyes go all empty and you start looking away, ignoring me. Don't ignore me, Berrnnn~"

"You're being paranoid."

"Paranoid? Me? Eheheh." Lambda giggles to herself- but her face soon darkens. Her smile doesn't look cheerful. Instead, it's almost terrifying; a twisted grimace that makes even Bernkastel feel something vaguely akin to fear, because she's never seen Lambda look like that before.

Never.

Lambdadelta's fingers- still clad in those black gloves- cup Bernkastel's cheek; but it's not tender at all. It's harsh- forcing Bern's head up like a doll so their eyes meet. Carefully blank purple, enraged crimson.

"Bernkastel." When Lambdadelta next speaks her voice is unusually cold; incredibly serious. She doesn't sound like herself anymore. Or, rather... she_ does_ sound like herself. She sounds like the real Lambdadelta who isn't hidden behind a constructed façade of stupidity and large smiles and an insatiable sweet tooth. Lambdadelta isn't feared for nothing. Beneath her sugar-coated lies her words are tipped with poison.

Even so, this side of Lambdadelta is easy to understand. Bernkastel almost feels relieved.

Pain is simpler than love.

It doesn't hurt as much.

Or, rather… pain is a more direct form of love. They both have the same outcome.

"I'm not paranoid," says Lambda coldly.

Lambdadelta's grip on Bern's jaw tightens. Idly, the empty-eyed witch wonders whether she'll tear it off... not that it matters. It isn't like Bernkastel is that fragile. She might look like a doll, but if she gets broken she can fix herself easily using magic, and it doesn't even leave any visible scars.

"I know there's something wrong, Bern! You've been acting really strangely lately- even more than usual, and you think I wouldn't notice? You think I don't care? Because I _do _notice- I'm more perceptive than you think- and I seriously, honestly, cross my heart, if my lie may I swallow one thousand needles, care about you! If you think I'm lying you can make me swallow those one thousand needles yourself! You want to try, hmnn?~"

Bernkastel doesn't answer. She doesn't respond at all. Instead, she remains icy; a porcelain doll that can't be broken, a clockwork toy that has already wound down. Not human.

Barely even alive.

A witch.

Which is exactly the same as a monster.

Monsters don't have feelings. That's why nobody mourns them when they die at the end of fairy stories.

Nobody would mourn Bernkastel.

"It's okay to pretend you don't have any emotions now," Lambda hisses. Her eyes are dark red pin-pricks on a backdrop of lily white; just like Clair's blood as it soaked her elegant skirts. "It's okay for you to sit there looking down on everybody, as usual- but it's different when you remember you're not_ quite_ as heartless as you'd like to think, now, isn't it, Beernnnn?~~ Kikikikiki..."

Lambda's voice drops to little more than a whisper, but Bernkastel hears every word. They slice into her keenly, until she wonders whether this is how Clair felt. Dresses tearing, bones breaking (and breaking again), blood rushing and heart beating and insides spilling out onto the floor.

_H__ey, Clair, is that how you felt when I pulled the truth of your pathetic existence out for all eyes to see?_

But Bernkastel can't talk to dead girls, so she'll never know.

She knows what Clair _was_- but she'll never know what she_ felt._

Clair was a story book to Bernkastel; one of the heavy, leather-bound compendiums of fairytales Bernkastel would read to Auaurora. This was back when Bernkastel was young and innocent and not so horribly afraid. Clair was an object; not a person. Did story books even have thoughts and feelings?

Maybe not.

Clair was a projection of another's story into a discarded vessel; an old Beatrice that was then thrown away like junk, trash. Unneeded and unwanted.

But maybe she did have some thoughts of her own in that empty head of hers.

Maybe... she was afraid.

She probably didn't want to die.

Well, that's base human instinct- nobody does.

Not even...

Not even Bernkastel.

Bernkastel has never been confronted like this before- not by Lambdadelta. But... it...

...hurts.

Just a little.

Not that much.

Not really.

But it's… painful… almost like being pricked by a thorn on a rose. Roses are deceptive with their beauty- beginning foolish people to talk hold of them; and that's when they bite into skin and draw blood. Drip, drip, drip.

Maybe Clair wasn't afraid to die. Maybe she really _was _an object; all individual thoughts and feelings fleeing her head before Bern ever buried her hands in it. Maybe she was numb.

It's better to be numb.

Nothing can hurt you.

"That's right~" says Lambda, a smirk splitting her face. Her free fingers bury in Bernkastel's hair; tugging at the blue locks she used to thread candy through, forcing them to maintain eye contact even though it's starting to hurt. What hurts? Lambda's hands or Lambda's words? Both?

R-really...?

"It's easy to sit there pretending you don't need me- pretending you don't care; but that's not true, is it? When you fall asleep your brain starts to pick at things you like to think you've risen above, riiiight? Dark rooms and hushed voices; it's so lonely and cold in here and I've been here so long, why won't somebody save me? I distance myself from people when I'm awake... Look down on them. Think I'm better than them. But when I'm asleep there's nothing left but me and my head and my memories and I'm all alone. Always alone. Why won't anybody come and save me?"

Lambda no longer looks quite so angry. Instead, her voice is broken; the soft mutterings of a small child lost in a dark forest- a child who has searched round and round in circles for days and nights, but there is no trail of bread crumbs and no gingerbread cottage either. There are no princesses or princes in this wood, and there aren't even any cackling witches waiting for young children to fall into their clutches. There's nothing but the darkness and the cold and pain and fear.

Loneliness.

Beginning for company. Your mother, father. Friends.

Or even a wicked witch who probably wants you dead.

Just somebody... anybody... to reassure you that you're not the last person alive in the world- and that somebody still cares.

Bernkastel still shivers when she thinks about it.

Maybe she's never escaped from that forest. It's still inside her head, and she can still see it clearly when she closes her eyes. Maybe she's still circling round by herself- a small girl in a dark, scary, unforgiving world- and she still can't find the trail of breadcrumbs (but she can't find the birds who ate the trail either) and her Master is never coming back.

"I don't want to be alone," Lambdadelta whispers. Her eyes are a little too wide- and there's some strange insanity lurking behind them (but Lambda has never been entirely sane to begin with). "I-I don't want to be alone... not anymore... I-it's so cold in here, and so dark... A-and when I close my eyes, I'll be back there again... W-when I go back to sleep, I'll be in the same closed room... A-and then it's just me... And my heartbeat… And my breathing… And… And… And _silence._"

Lambdadelta smiles.

"Isn't that what you're thinking when you fall asleep?" asks Lambda, leaning forwards closer- far too close. Her teeth are too sharp; her words grow canines that cut through flesh. "Haven't you ever felt that lost and hopeless, Bernnn?~ Isn't that why, when you wake up from your nightmares, you always turn to me? To check you're still alive?"

Bernkastel doesn't reply. She can't talk. Words are like cotton balls in her throat; they're choking her. Suffocating. She can feel her eyes prickle- b-but no... Surely that's an illusion?

Surely that's a lie?

_S-stupid..._

Lambdadelta's smile softens slightly. Her fingers move away from Bernkastel's hair; no longer gripping it with her horrible intensity. Lambdadelta takes her gloves off slowly, casting them aside- before bare fingertips slide across Bern's cheeks gently.

"It's okay," says Lambdadelta softly. "It's... fine. Because I feel like that when I fall asleep, too."

"I-I never said I felt like that..."

"You didn't have to say it 'cause I know. Instinct. Intuition. Fear," says Lambda. "When you're not trying to hide how you feel, I can usually tell what's going on in your mind... and it's usually fear. Seriously. You're not nearly as good an actress as you like to think, Bernn~ But, eheh~ I guess somebody who's spent their whole life telling stories never really bothers to learn how to _act_ in stories themselves. Is that true?"

Bernkastel's shoulders stiffen. "I-I don't want to talk about it."

Lambda sticks out her tongue. "Well, bad luck, because _**I**_ do."

"D-do you have to be such a brat?"

"And do you have to be so stupid?" Lambdadelta snaps back. "Bern... It's okay to admit you need somebody sometimes. Really. And I'm not going to go anywhere. I promise."

Bernkastel looks down at her lap. When she speaks her voice is soft, almost... vulnerable- and she's disgusted with herself, but she can't help it. She's broken. Horribly broken. Maybe she wasn't quite so safe on her pedestal after all (but Lambda was always the only one who could reach- because she was the only one who could ever understand).

"People don't keep their promises."

"Bern... It's not a matter of whether I want to leave you or not." Lambda's voice is raw, painfully truthful- unmistakably truthful. Her eyes look suspiciously damp; tears beginning to pool against her spiky black lashes. "I _can't_ leave you."

Bernkastel blinks. Her eyes widen slightly- the irises shrinking in a vast pool of milky white. Her lips fall open in a small 'o'.

Lambdadelta reflects, with a small, melancholy smile, that is perhaps the most shocked she's ever seen the stoic Bernkastel- but really, logically, Bern shouldn't be that surprised. She shouldn't be surprised at all.

She didn't say anything that surprising.

"If I abandoned you, then what would I have left?" asks Lambda. Her voice is bitter. "I-I've already been alone for... such a long time. Too long! I don't want to remember! I don't want to feel like that again! S-so you understand... t-that if I left you... A-and I didn't have anybody else to turn to… I'd go quite insane, y-yes? Hehehe..." A humorless laugh that stings like shards of glass. "I-I think we're pretty similar in that respect, aren't we?~ The only difference is..." Lambdadelta closes her eyes. Pauses. Inhales, exhales. "_I'm _not afraid of admitting it. I'm not afraid of saying I get lonely sometimes… All the time. Eating away inside of me… Kihihihi~"

A shaky breath. Red eyes snap open; filled with bad memories and fear and pain and need and she's not even ashamed; she can't even hide it. There are tears, too. How weak. How pathetic.

How...

Tragic.

It reminds Bernkastel of the look in Clair's eyes before she fell- strings cut like a marionette- to the floor. She tumbled in a pile of snowy white, cloth and lace and silken hair strung through with pearls. Her skin was pale. Her blood was red. She was beautiful, like a princess- but she was empty, like a Russian doll. An unwanted personality stacked inside that lonely maid girl who fell in love with Ushiromiya Battler- but Clair was chipped and imperfect and she couldn't contain all that love inside her- so that child created more Russian dolls with pretty painted faces.

But Clair wasn't empty.

She wasn't.

There was... something... in her eyes.

There was still enough of a person inside of Clair for Bernkastel to kill.

Lambdadelta looks a little bit like Clair did.

Bernkastel felt numb then- but she feels the opposite now; because she can, quite simply, feel _too much._

"Sometimes I hate you, Bern," says Lambdadelta, her bare fingers cupping Bern's cheeks; skin and against skin and it's so soft and _warm_. "W-when you look at me like you don't even care it hurts, you know? It really does. Because I have a heart that actually **can **be hurt- and I'm not like you, and I don't try and hide that! I know that I can't be alone- I-I know that I'd go insane without you. B-bern... I _need_ you."

A pause.

Bernkastel can feel her heart beat faster and faster.

Her hands are covered in blood; the red, red blood of a pretty Russian doll with a tortured look hidden just behind her empty face. It makes her feel sick.

The prince and princess had their fairytale ending- an ending Bernkastel wanted to prevent because... because...

"I know you like to pretend you can't feel anything and you don't need anyone- but that's a lie, right? That's not true! If you didn't need me you'd push me away- but you never do! That's why, isn't it? That's why you hated Beato so much, and it's why you introduced Ange to the game, and it's why you fought alongside Battler! You can't stand the idea of people being in love because it _scares_ you! You know you need somebody else, but you don't want to admit it, because you're afraid they'll leave you- just like Auaurora. So you tried to destroy that love. It terrified you and you hated that it terrified you- so, in return, you hated Beatrice. You hated Battler. You hated Ange. And even your own piece, Erika... And maybe you were jealous, too. Fear and jealousy- and running away from things you don't understand! Isn't that a little childish for a witch like you, Bern?"

"B-be quiet..."

"Isn't that _pathetic_?"

"S-stop it..."

"Don't you think it's time you stopped trying to hide behind those blank eyes and that haughty attitude?"

"L-lambda-"

Lambdadelta's fingers reach Bern's shoulders once more; digging into flesh- preventing escape.

Trapped.

Cornered.

A lost child in a dark forest- but I can't find the way out; where did I go? What can I do...?

"I don't know what you think you are, but you're still a human! You still have feelings! If you didn't have emotions you wouldn't look so frightened and so scared and so lost- a-and I don't want you to look like that! Why can't you just _let yourself be happy_? That happiness isn't all going to disappear the moment you reach for it! The whole world isn't conspiring to make you miserable! A-and you might think I'm lying… but I was always telling the truth. Always. At least, to you."

"L-lambda-"

Lambdadelta reaches forward (she's trapped; a cat cornered, nowhere to go you can't run anymore because she caught up to you and your lies in the end just like you always knew she would with her sharp eyes and sharper smiles); eyes filled with so much feeling, jagged-edged emotion, that it cuts and tears and leaves purple-black bruises.

Lips that drips love and poison in equal parts, too.

The only lies were the lies inside Bernkastel's mind.

Lambdadelta always told the truth.

Always.

The liar was always that lonely, lost, scared young girl. That girl who had always been inside her head; waiting to catch her off guard when she fell asleep.

The liar had always been Bernkastel.

Always.

Lips press against Bernkastel's with urgency- but it's warm and gentle, and maybe Lambdadelta was always that loving and Bernkastel never noticed- or maybe Lambda used to try and hurt her to reach that scared little girl who still lived inside her mind... But this is, perhaps, their first kiss.

Their first real kiss.

During all the other kisses Bernkastel disengaged herself; said it didn't matter- she didn't need anybody. Physical affection merely filled empty time in her bland and boring monochrome life- but it didn't have any meaning. Lambda didn't care. Bernkastel didn't care.

At least, that was what Bernkastel told herself.

But...

But deep down inside, she _did_ care.

She really, truly did.

And she doesn't want to be alone.

Not anymore.

Not when she's destroyed all the one other person who, potentially, would have stood by her side.

Erika.

Lambdadelta's lips are warm and soft, and the small breathy noises from the other witch's mouth are soothing; they make Bern's heart stammer in her chest until she can hardly breathe. Is this love? Touches like fire that singe the flesh, a thump-thump-thump that hammers inside her chest like a baby bird beating its wings?

She's never felt like this before.

She never wanted to feel like this before- because the world would take it away from her.

"_Life isn't conspiring to make you miserable, you know."_

Or maybe she was just paranoid.

Maybe it's good to be paranoid- because it stops you from being hurt by broken promises and unachievable dreams.

Too much.

T-this is too much.

Bernkastel is going to drown in all this feeling; lips against hers that are so gentle it stirs strange feelings in her chest she's never felt before- feelings she was sure were dead, and there are fingertips without gloves pressing against her cheek, cupping her face and her eyes are stinging, salty and-

"N-no more, stop, _stop it_-"

Bernkastel pushes away, her hands taking hold of fabric on Lambda's chest, trying to push her away- and Lambda's hat is knocked aside, her eyes are sparkling, her cheeks flushed. Bern can't do this, she can't- it hurts too much, it's, it's…

It's…

I-it's _frightening._

Being loved like this is…

It scares her.

She can't do it- and Bernkastel knows she must sound pathetic, her voice is begging (she's never _begged_ before) but nobody can do this to her other than Lambdadelta. Her mouth tastes of honey and sugar and saccharine; almost as if Lambda has infused their bodies together with sickly sweet spit, and Bern feels ill, unclean, she wants to curl up in a corner like a cat and hide with her hands stained with blood-

But she doesn't want to be alone.

She wavers; trying to push and pull Lambda away and towards her, and her hands freeze, her skin is pale and she's swallowed Lambda's spit, swallowed part of this blonde witch with the eyes filled with love and she can't pretend it never happened and-

And-

Panic.

Fear.

Lambdadelta opens her mouth and Bernkastel doesn't want to listen.

But she does anyway.

"Bernkastel... Please don't push me away." Lambdadelta's voice is truthful; sincere. Horribly so.

She smiles.

"Bern… I'm not lying, I swear, I'm not…" Fingers brush through Bern's hair; soothing. "B-but… Bern, I... I love you. I've always loved you."

Bernkastel flinches, but…

But she always knew that.

That was why Bernkastel never pushed Lambdadelta away.

That was why Bernkastel curled up, cat-like, against Lambdadelta's sleeping body when the nightmares became so bad they crippled her.

And that is also why...

Bernkastel- for the first time in almost one thousand years- blinks at Lambdadelta... opens her mouth... maybe she's going to say something- b-but she can't. She doesn't.

Because, instead...

She starts to cry.

* * *

><p><strong>an: **Okay I lied. This isn't the last chapter. There'll be one more uber-short one ^_^;  
>These two are really adorable, aren't they? I mean, despite their messed up and dsyfunctional relationship... I think, in the end, they really need each other.<br>Also, I can't resist talking about Clair. I love Clair. She's so sweet, and her fate was so horrible... ;A;  
>Perhaps what happened to Clair in this fic, and the emotion Bern sees before she kills her, can be related my other umineko fanfic about Clair, 'there are only ashes here' XP<p>

**~renahhchen xoxo**


	10. Deep sea girl

**Under the scarlet sky****  
><strong>Chapter Ten

'Deep sea girl'

* * *

><p>She shouldn't be crying. It's pathetic, disgraceful- especially for a real witch like her. Witches aren't meant to cry; they're emotionless monsters that always play the villain. Witches aren't meant to have feelings, right? Isn't crying breaking some kind of universal rule established in the earliest of fairytales?<p>

Bernkastel doesn't much care about 'fairytales'. They're only stories. Stupid stories told by stupid humans who can never hope to comprehend the workings of the universe as she does- the witch of miracles who has visited many kakera.

Bernkastel has seen amazing things.

Her knowledge surpasses that of any humans' by about ten or eleven times. Even if human beings lived for thousands of years, they could never hope to hold a candle to her.

Bernkastel isn't human enough to cry.

Crying doesn't help anything.

And yet, despite this… her eyes are stinging, her throat burns and she can hardly breathe. It feels like she's going to choke- she is choking, she can hardly breathe- and the hot tears continue to course down her damp cheeks like rain down a window pane. Her blue hair mats against her wet skin; clinging to her like pond weed.

She can't stop.

It won't stop.

She has accumulated the knowledge of thousands of kakera over a thousand years- and yet Lambdadelta can still reduce her to tears like a stupid human.

How unseemly.

How… disgusting.

Bernkastel digs her fingernails into her arm, trying to distract herself with pain. Maybe this will halt the steady trickle of tears. She chants a mantra in her head, over and over again, her voice harsh; stop it stop it stop it...

But… she can't.

A cruel voice giggles inside the confines of her skull.

_Kyahahaha. You're really no better than those humans you look down upon, are you?~ Where are your airs and graces nowww?~~_

They're gone.

Scattered.

And her façade is broken.

Her whole body trembles like a leaf in the wind; fragile and delicate. Lambda has taken hold of her frozen heart and poked holes in it with her fingertips.

The pain of being betrayed; the pain of being nothing more than a 'piece'; the pain of being cold and lonely like a broken junked doll; the pain of trying to rid her heart of all emotion so she would never have to feel pain at all, ever again...

A thousand years of crippling agony washes through her body like a wave. It twists her heart and claws through her blood stream, her bones, her whole body, until trying to stop herself trembling seems as fruitless as telling the sun to stop rising or the wind to stop howling.

How can you keep standing when you've been crushed?

It hurts to breathe…

She can't draw breath between her tears; and still, they continue to fall. Maybe she will drown in a pool of her tears- a fitting end for a lost, lonely little girl who wore the skin of a witch for one thousand years.

Was her existence based on a lie?

Is_ she_ a lie?

"Bern..."

Lambda's voice is soft, but the feeling of her fingertips brushing Bern's pale skin, wiping tears before they can fall, is even softer. Lambdadelta's face is filled with worry... or is it pity?

Bernkastel doesn't want pity. She is the witch of miracles, the cruelest witch to ever live, and all cower from her in fear. She doesn't need friends. She only needs people who fear and revere her; because the world runs on fear and pain, doesn't it?

Bernkastel is empty, emotionless; a doll on a pedestal, removed from the feelings that afflict humanity. Bernkastel does not feel happiness or care or compassion. She does not feel grief. She cannot cry.

She cannot fall in love.

She threw those feelings away a long time ago.

…Didn't she?

Or did she merely pretend to, so the fear of being hurt by another- just like her Master did- doesn't return?

Lambdadelta's hands cup Bern's face tenderly. Her fingertips are stained with Bern's tears. The tears shimmer like snail tracks or shooting stars, but Lambda doesn't move away.

She would never move away.

She promised.

People break promises all the time- 'I'll come back for you', look how well that turned out and, w-well, Bernkastel would laugh (she has laughed) but now it doesn't feel all that funny. Now, it's just depressing.

_Empty._

"I-I..." Bern's voice is quiet, like a fast-fading echo; the twentieth reverberated 'plink' of a stone thrown into a well. It's a shadow of her usual voice; not emotionless nor gleefully sadistic. Instead, it's broken.

She is broken.

...How hackneyed. How clichéd.

But those clichés don't apply to witches; never to witches. They have no human kindness about them, no pity in their hearts. The epiphanies and revelations are always left to the heroes and heroines because they have emotions. Nobody cares about what happens to the witch.

But maybe Bernkastel isn't a witch after all.

Isn't she, in the end… a lonely, lost child?

Maybe she's not so dissimilar from Beatrice after all.

"Bern, what's wrong?" Lambdadelta asks. Her words are fraught with worry.

Maybe Lambda doesn't pity Bernkastel, then- which is good. If it was pity in her voice, not worry, then Bern would press those hard candies Lambda likes so much into her red eyes until the sockets fall out and are replaced with sweets. Bernkastel is too proud to be pitied.

Even when she's crying like a useless, clumsy, inelegant human, she's still proud.

If she throws away her pride, what would she have left?

Bernkastel doesn't know why she leans against Lambda's touch, and she doesn't know why her once-frozen heart catches in her chest, and she doesn't know why she begins to talk.

She's lost.

Completely confused.

But Lambdadelta will always remain by her side, regardless. She will... never be alone.

She doesn't want to be alone.

Maybe that's why she starts talking.

Bernkastel would like to say she 'knows' Lambdadelta won't leave her, but... she can't trust that. Lambda might be the witch of 'certainty', but surely not even she keeps all of her promises. Bernkastel made the mistake of trusting Auaurora- and look how that turned out. Then again, it was probably a mistake to believe in the promise of an old, ancient witch who can barely remember her own name. Why would the fickle Auaurora remember a few fleeting words she gave to her miko as they drank umeboshi tea, twenty yen a packet, and reveled in the scent of old books and tea that perforated the dusty air?

Bernkastel doesn't want Lambda to leave- and though she hates to admit that (she's being so weak) she knows it's true. If she talks, there is a greater chance Lambda will stay by her side.

Maybe that's why the words spill from her mouth; a downpour, like torrential rain.

Or maybe she's talking because these words have been building up inside her a long time. She has been pondering this for one thousand years. That is, if you measure it in 'Earth' terms. Time passes strangely here, and six years of human heartbreak can be equivalent to one thousand- but Bernkastel is sure she's been here, in this world of white and golden butterflies, for longer than that.

Bernkastel needs to talk. She has to.

Despite the tears that still stick to her cheeks- gumming hair to her skin in a most undignified manner- her voice is calm and hollow when she speaks. It's a little disconcerting; a huge contrast to the maelstrom of emotion swarming inside her head.

Even when all her barriers have been broken, she still can't talk in anything other than a monotone calm.

"I thought I would feel... triumphant... if I discovered the truth behind that stupid child's 'love story'," says Bern. "No… I knew from the beginning the truth behind that child's existence. I just wanted everybody else to realize how pitiful her dreams of love were. But, even though I uncovered it… I don't feel any different. I don't feel like I've won. I just feel... _empty._"

Fingers run through Bern's hair, and Bernkastel leans into the warm touch because it's all she has left. Lambdadelta is the only person left who cares.

That's just a little bit depressing.

Her life can't really be that barren and desolate, can it...?

Bernkastel runs through a quick mental inventory of all the people she knows who would possibly offer her friendship and warmth and kindness- but there is only one name on that list, and it's the blonde-haired witch stood before her. Bernkastel pushed everybody else away…

But Lambdadelta is still here.

"I don't want to feel empty," Bernkastel says, her voice barely a whisper. It's a shameful secret; an admission of weakness... But it's true. "If I'm going to feel nothing then... is there any point to being alive? If I can't even gloat about my victories, then... It's pointless. All of it. I-it's-"

"Shh."

Lambdadelta presses a finger against Bern's lips.

Bernkastel swallows her words. Swallows her pride. She wants somebody to talk to; she needs somebody to respond. That makes her words seem more meaningful- because somebody cares.

"It's okay. I understand that you don't want to rely on anybody, but... mm. Well. Maybe other people make your live worth living? If you're all alone then you can't share your thoughts and feelings- and maybe that makes them worthless. But you don't have to feel worthless, Bern~ I'm here, riiight? I'll always be here. Kukuku~" Lambdadelta giggles. "Until you're sick of me and want me dead. But I'm not going to leave youuuu~ Not now, not ever!~ You're mine~ Fufufu~"

Bernkastel's eyes widen slightly. The tears have stopped now, but her heart still trembles in her chest like the rapidly beating wings of a butterfly. She's never felt like this before…

Or maybe she has, and she tried to blot it out.

Love makes you weak.

But...

"Hey, you know~" says Lambda thoughtfully, "without love it cannot be seen~ Weren't those the arc words in Beato's game? And maybe there's some truth in that... Even for witches like you and me~"

"Are you trying to be philosophical?" asks Bern, her voice deadpan despite the rapid beat-beat-beat of her heart. "It's tiresome."

"Well, if you're back to insulting me I'm suuure you'll be fine~" says Lambda, giggling. "But, mm, well... To everybody else, I guess you look like a cruel, sadistic monster. But I care about you. I've always cared about you. Annnd..." A smile. "I always thought you were more than that. Even though you do a crazy-awesome job of convincing me otherwise sometimes~ Fufufufu~"

"L-lambda..." Bern tries to speak, but now there are no words. Instead, she can only stutter- her cool, collected voice dissipating, her vocabulary fleeing from underneath her fingertips so she can hardly give her feelings definitions inside her head, let alone with her tongue.

But Lambdadelta only smiles… and maybe that's enough.

"It's a good job I like you, Bern, or I would've left you for dead aggeessss ago."

"M-my life would have been more peaceful that way, certainly..."

Lambdadelta kisses Bern's cheek gently, brushing strands of blue hair aside.

"And more boring, I bet."

Well, that's certainly true.

Bernkastel can hardly imagine a life without Lambdadelta in it.

Not anymore.

* * *

><p>Bernkastel gasps as Lambda's mouth presses against hers. It's not urgent or insistent like the previous times- and that's a little frightening.<p>

Bernkastel used to disengage her mind whenever this happened; her thoughts drifting off into the clouds whilst Lambda's fingers scuttled over her like spiders' legs. Bernkastel's body and her head would almost become two separate entities; her body responding to Lambda's touch, whilst her mind remained far above such a depraved human ritual.

Bernkastel felt in control. She felt powerful. Even though Lambda's fingers would find their way inside her body and her mouth would fill with the taste of Lambda's tongue, Bernkastel would remain aloof.

Unreachable.

Even to the one person who claimed to love her.

However, this is... different. It's tender; not merely an animalistic act or a parody of softer emotions, but... there's something warm in Lambda's eyes, something genuinely caring- something that was there all along, but Bernkastel never saw it.

She didn't want to see it.

Now Bernkastel's eyes are opened. She's no longer blind. The love filled in Lambda's eyes is so thick- like syrup- that it almost drives her breath straight from her body.

_Without love it cannot be seen._

How disgusting, how sentimental, how human... Bernkastel remembers the smell of blood; a sickle digging into Clair's torso with the same noise a split grapefruit makes; and she leaked the same color of a split grapefruit, too. Humans are filled with disgusting, glistening meat lathered in red blood- and they dare to pretend their ideas of 'love' are beautiful and profound and _perfect _when they're bipedal mammals made of flesh and bone?

There's nothing amazing about 'love' at all. It's a mating ritual tailored so people can have children, and 'love' is a flimsy excuse tacked onto this act of nature to make it seem somehow beautiful.

It's not beautiful.

It's ugly- and it's hilarious when people try to delude themselves otherwise.

Humans aren't perfect. When you cut them they bleed. What happens to their notions of 'love' then? It leaves their bodies with the trails of crimson; running down the drain.

How ridiculous

Bernkastel is above that, she's better than that, she-

S-she...

But Lambda's fingers against her skin are so comforting; drawing nonsensical patterns against flesh and pushing at Bernkastel's clothes whilst their lips press together in soft, unhurried kisses.

Bernkastel can hardly give her feelings a name- but she doesn't want Lambdadelta to leave. Not now.

She doesn't want to be alone anymore.

Bernkastel can't disengage her mind from what Lambdadelta is doing. She feels pinned, helpless; her legs curled up with Lambda's as the blonde witch kisses her. They're too close together- much too close. Bernkastel can feel, under the fabric of Lambda's pink dress, the warmth of her skin and the delicate bones underneath. It would be easy to push Lambda away- to shatter her jaw, to break her teeth, to crunch her face under the heels of her shoes...

So why does Bernkastel feel so trapped?

She's not merely enraptured by Lambda's fingertips.

Lambdadelta holds her heart in her hands, too- something Bernkastel never let her do before. But now it feels as though Bern's feelings don't even belong to her, inside her chest.

Lambdadelta has hold of them- and she can do with them what she wishes.

Bern's skin feels overly sensitive and the shivers at the slightest touch. The kisses that trail, from her lips to her cheek, her neck, against her collarbone and against her exposed breasts, are like fire. It burns- she can hardly breathe, and it's… painful…

Is it meant to be painful?

It never was before.

Bernkastel's not in control anymore. Her mind is rooted painfully inside her skull and it cackles at her whilst Lambda's fingers skitter across her exposed flesh.

She has never been this close to Lambdadelta before.

Bernkastel doesn't know if this is terrifying or comforting. She doesn't feel alone- not at all, with hands against her skin and Lambda's heartbeat in synch with hers. It reminds Bern she's still alive, even more than the pain did. It hurts, but Bernkastel doesn't know whether this pain is in her head (or in her heart) because Lambda's lips and tongue and teeth aren't biting enough to draw blood, although it will probably leave a mark...

What is she doing?

She's going to drown in feeling until she hardly remembers who she is. She'll become delusional like Auaurora... or maybe she's already gone insane. Why is she letting this happen?

She wants to push Lambdadelta away.

Lambdadelta makes her feel weak.

Vulnerable.

Human.

And yet, at the same time, Lambdadelta makes her feel wanted. _Needed._ She's not alone- she doesn't want to be alone- and Bernkastel's mind fights between two extremes of emotion as her fingers alternately push Lambda away and pull her closer.

Love is stupid, laughable- and yet, at the same time, it feels incredibly precious.

_I'm becoming a sentimental idiot._

Her heartbeat speeds in up her chest, skipping a beat- skipping haphazardly all over the place until Bern feels it will rise out of her throat and choke her. She can't breathe- but that's okay, because Lambdadelta's looking a little flushed too, despite her playful smile.

"L-lambda…" Bern's voice breaks up like shattered glass. "I... I-I..."

Lambda's lips draw away from Bern's pale skin. Bernkastel feels strangely relieved (too close; she'll eat you alive and spit out only the bones and blue hair) and, at the same time... she feels bereft. When Lambdadelta presses close against her like that, threatening to consume her like she eats her favorite candies, Bernkastel doesn't know what to feel.

Thinking has never hurt so much.

Letting other people close ensures you that you're still alive and you can still feel. And yet, at the same time, inviting them to press lips against flesh in such an intimate way, when there are real feelings behind the actions, seems foolish.

As Bernkastel lies there, her chest heaving and mouth parted, she's inviting Lambdadelta to take everything; take her very being and twist it all under the guise of 'love'.

This was far easier to understand when Bernkastel believed every word that came from Lambda's lips were false. If Bernkastel fell in love she... would only get hurt.

She can't trust people.

They'll only betray her.

"Am I hurting you?" Lambda asks softly, her fingers- black gloves are gone, the pale digits look exposed, easily breakable- brushing Bern's cheek. "I-if you like I'll stop..."

"N-no."

Before she's given it any thought Bernkastel takes hold of Lambda's wrist; pressing her hands against her cheek so the blonde witch can't leave.

_Don't leave me._

Lambda blinks at Bern in confusion- though she's beginning to smile. "B-bern... You don't want me to go? This is interestinggg~"

"No. I... I can't explain it," says Bernkastel. She doesn't want to look at Lambda's face because something in her eyes seems gloating, victorious- and Lambda hasn't 'won', not at all. Then again, Bernkastel doesn't feel too much like a victor herself, her heart thumping and her chest tight. "I... I-it's... I-it's..."

"Are you scared?"

Bernkastel doesn't respond- but her silence is all the answer Lambda needs.

Then, holding her gently as though she's made of glass, Lambdadelta's fingers cup Bern's face; bringing their eyes together. Lambdadelta doesn't look so triumphant- so maybe Bernkastel was being paranoid. Instead, she looks strangely understanding.

"Don't be scared. I won't hurt you. I promise I won't hurt you."

"You've been making a lot of promises lately."

"Ah, but I'm not a reckless, stupid human~" Lambda says, voice sing-song, as she bumps their foreheads together. She smiles. "As the witch of certainty, I declare that I would never, ever want to make you cry. It's not a pretty sight~"

"That's quite rude."

"Yes, well, you know me~ I'm so very charming! Kukuku~~"

"...You're an idiot," says Bernkastel, after a pause. She sighs.

Lambdadelta only smiles. Then- moving quickly- she ducks her head, and places a light kiss on the tip of Bernkastel's nose.

"But I'm _your_ idiot."

Bernkastel's cheeks flush a very, very light pink. "…Moron. I feel like I'm losing brain cells merely having this conversation."

"Think of how lonely you'd be if this moron wasn't here with you to comfort you when you're sad," Lambda says, giggling. "Aww, you look so cute when you turn reedddd. I guess even you have a cute side too, right, Bernnn? I think this type of defrosting ice princess character is very popular right now! Kikiki~"

"Your voice is giving me a headache. Shut up."

"Make me."

"…I will."

And with those words Bernkastel- though her heart is hammering, her breath catching in her throat- presses her lips against Lambdadelta's in a gentle kiss. It might be the first time Bernkastel initiated any kind of affection between the two, but if Lambda asks about it later (which she will; she definitely will) Bernkastel will just repeat what she said previously.

Her voice was annoying and Bernkastel didn't want to talk.

That was it.

There was no emotion behind that kiss- certainly not.

So…

Why is Bernkastel's heart fluttering?

Of course, Lambdadelta will see through that flimsy excuse in an instant, but for now Bernkastel doesn't care. Her cat tail coils round Lambda's body, twitching of its own accord even though Bernkastel's face remains impassive, and her body trembles under Lambdadelta's touch as more of her dress is pushed off her shoulders- pooling in folds of dark purple fabric.

Bernkastel feels like a stupid princess in a fairy story. Lambdadelta has… what? Climbed the tall tower, given her kiss of life and swept her off her feet? How stupid. Wasn't Bernkastel meant to be the witch?

…It appears her role in the story has changed somewhat.

Bernkastel is still afraid- but she's not sure what she's scared of anymore.

Being alone.

Or being loved.

Maybe even being _in_...

But she won't say that.

That would just be embarrassing.

Lips press against lips; fingers roam; one of Lambda's hands press against Bernkastel's breasts whilst the other inches up her thigh. Bernkastel's lips are swollen with kisses, her mouth saturated with the taste of candy, her socks unrolled and her clothes rumpled and her heart beats faster and faster.

She doesn't feel like a witch anymore.

Maybe she's becoming human.

* * *

><p>When Lambdadelta cuddles up beside Bern that night, her skin soft and warm across an array of delicate, brittle bones Bernkastel could snap in an instant (they're both fragile; both of them- it's not just her), Bernkastel doesn't feel quite as empty anymore. Lambda's eyes are half-lidded and sleepy, her breaths coming out in shallow gasps and- whilst Bernkastel would never admit it- she's... almost endearing. Lambda's skin smells of candy and her lips are sugary sweet as she presses lazy kisses against Bern's mouth- sometimes missing her lips and catching her cheek instead, but Bern doesn't mind.<p>

It's warm and soft and completely removed from anything else Bernkastel has ever known. It's frightening. But... she feels... safe.

"Muu~ Bernnn~" Lambda mumbles, her lips pressed against Bernkastel's neck.

"What do you want?"

"Will you be angry at me if I've left any marks on youuu?~"

Bernkastel pauses. Then, she sighs. "Why, of all the things to say, did you ask that?"

Lambda shrugs. "Dunno. It just came into my head. I'm curious."

"Curiosity killed the cat."

"Huh, yeah. There is that, I guess. Don't kill me, Bern."

"I will make great efforts not to. You should stop being so annoying, though."

"Hauu~ M'not annoyin'… Not me… Certainly nottt. It's part of my charm."

"What charm?"

"O-ouch… t-hat was mean… humph." Lambda frowns. "M'not talkin' to you anymore."

"Go right ahead."

There's a small silence. Bernkastel wonders whether Lambda really will begin talking again, as the atmosphere in her bedroom seems… heavy… without Lambda's light-hearted banter to ease it. Without Lambdadelta all Bernkastel has left are her memories.

She doesn't want to spend too much time inside her own mind. It's depressing.

Lambdadelta always cheers her up, though. Lambdadelta's voice is the ray of sunshine that sparks across the ocean; a sign of hope that the girl buried under fathoms of her own despair will, one day, break through the waves once more.

…When did Bernkastel begin needing Lambdadelta?

Maybe she always needed her- and she just didn't realize.

Bernkastel's thoughts drift. Without Lambdadelta to anchor her, Bernkastel loses herself in a pool of memory; of Auaurora and her dimly-lit room that smelt of books and paper and umeboshi tea that they would drink together like friends, like equals. She used to respect Auaurora. Maybe even love her, as an enfettered child would look up to a kindly adult or their mother.

Her Master was so kind…

Her Master betrayed her.

B-but Lambdadelta wouldn't do that, would she?

Would she?

"Bernnn~"

Bernkastel's body stiffens slightly at this question. She thought Lambdadelta was asleep, counting sheep or cows or any number of farmyard animals inside her confusing little mind- but apparently not.

Secretly, Bernkastel's grateful for it- though she would never admit it out loud.

Lambdadelta is always there when she needs her.

"What do you want now?"

There's a pause.

And then...

"Bernnn... I love you~"

Bernkastel feels something warm well up in her chest. Pain might have been a good measure to ensure you were still alive- but this feeling that, tentatively, begins to blossom inside Bern's is completely different. Pain ensured her that her body was still fully functional- but she could just as easily have been a cold, empty corpse dragged back to life. This feeling right here... it's different from the pain- although it still hurts, just a little, so maybe it's bittersweet; like eating sugary candy whilst drinking black tea.

This feeling is _more_ than ensuring the body can still work and the eyelids can still blink and the head can keep thinking. This feeling is not cold or clinical. Bernkastel can't dissect it or pull it apart or feast on the innards- because this feeling doesn't make sense. It's... ridiculous; it's dangerous; it can hurt even more than nails on exposed skin or the blade of a knife.

But it's comforting.

It's a sign that her heart is still beating.

It's a sign she's not just alive- but that she is _human._

Bernkastel wore the skin of a witch, a demon, for so long- but that was an act. A lie. It was an attempt to run away from something she didn't understand- but maybe she does, now.

Maybe she is... human, too.

Witches can't have happy endings.

But humans can.

And perhaps no true 'witches' exist in the world- or in any of the worlds Bernkastel has ever seen- because nobody is truly heartless. Everybody has some fondness buried inside them. It just takes the right person to reach inside your heart and find it.

But that all depends on whether you let them get that close.

Bernkastel feels disgusted with herself for thinking of such hackneyed phrases. She's beginning to sound like those two irritating, overly theatrical demons, with their cyan eyes and dramatic gestures; 'love is everything! Gyahahaha!' If she could, Bernkastel would laugh at herself- and a voice inside her head _does_, cackling at her stupidity.

_Do you really think this will last forever?_

But it is a chance Bernkastel will have to take.

She doesn't want to be alone anymore.

Pain isn't enough. Pride isn't enough.

But this...

Maybe this is enough.

It takes two people to create a universe.

Maybe this is what Bernkastel has always been searching for, as she flitted through distant kakeras searching for something to make her feel less empty. But she's not empty anymore.

For the first time in her life she feels...

Happy.

Bernkastel eyelids flicker shut; black lashes against a pale white background.

She doesn't say it aloud- but she doesn't need to.

It's written plainly across her face.

_I love you, too._

* * *

><p>When she falls asleep, for the first time in one thousand years…<p>

There are no more nightmares.

* * *

><p><strong>The End<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>an: **I enjoy finishing things. It gives me a sense of satisfaction XD  
>Um... I hope you enjoyed the ending ^_^; I'm glad that people read this fic, even if you didn't necessarily review, and I'm very grateful to you all ^_^ I know this fic might have some deviations from Umineko canon because Lambda and Bern aren't really given all that much back story, and they act like much hated enemies when they are first introduced even though they like each other really XD Their characters are a little difficult to pin down because Bernkastel acts cold and aloof but has that horrible sadistic streak to her, and Lambda acts very childish a lot of the time but seems to be a true neutral who genuinely supports Bahhtlerrr... so their characters might not be entirely accurate, or their motives, or... blaaaa :  
>But I do try XD<p>

Um, once again, thank you, I'm happy if you stuck through with this until the end ^_^;

Oh, and in case you didn't know... all the chapter titles are vocaloid songs XD The songs are relevant to the chapters, so you might want to listen to them if you are so inclined XD Especially Deep Sea Girl. I really like that song XP

**~renahhchen xoxoxo**


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